


something wicked this way comes

by perfchan



Series: it's you that's haunting me [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bottom Lance (Voltron), Domestic Fluff, Domestic klance, Established Relationship, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Ghost Hunters, Ghost Hunting AU, Happy Sex, Horror, Humor, M/M, POV Lance (Voltron), Sex Toys, Slow Build, can be read as a oneshot, dudebro in remission!Lance, punky paranormal!Keith, the three best tags imo, the toy play is very mild and not a reason to read or not read the fic lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 18:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16434407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: After teaming up to film ghost hunting videos for Keith’s channel, things between Lance and Keith started to get a little less ghost-y and a little more romance-y. (Lance’s words, not Keith’s). They’ve been together for over a year now, and everything is peachy---except for one little thing: Keith is terrible.Not really. Actually, Lance loves him more than anything, but. Why is Keith so good at scaring Lance? And, how is it that Keith NEVER seems to get scared??This time, Lance is determined: it’s going to be him that does the haunting.A little eerie, a little domestic, and a little bit of an epilogue. The final part of a not-too-serious ghosting hunting au.





	something wicked this way comes

**Author's Note:**

> (little girl from poltergeist voice) they’re baaaa~ack 
> 
> This fic takes place a few months after ‘things that go bump in the night,’ but, like I tagged, it can certainly be read on its own if you want. The only background info you really need is that Keith and Lance make ghost hunting videos together. This one is the klanciest (and scariest) of the three, at least I hope it is! And there’s quite a bit of domestic fluff thrown in as well. I hope you enjoy:

***

Lance picks up the old camera, flipping the attached leather strap around his neck. The thing is heavier than it looks. He brings it closer to his face, the earthiness of the worn leather punctuated with the acrid smell of metal. The knobs on the top of the camera are caked with grime, but their numbers are still legible. Giving it an experimental shake, he then holds it up to one eye, squinting through the lens. “Hey, Keith!” 

Keith turns around, looking over one shoulder in his direction. Lance sees his eyes scan across the booth, sliding over the other couple of people milling about until they stop on Lance. He tilts his head ever so slightly in silent question. 

“Say cheese!” Lance mimes pushing the shutter on the vintage camera. 

Keith does his best to smile accordingly, but considering an older woman is jostling his right side, and the man at the his left is shouting at the booth’s owner, it comes out as more of a grimace. 

Lance laughs at his expression, lowering the camera,  “Well, if it wasn’t broken before, it definitely is now.” 

Keith rolls his eyes. “C’mon, there’s nothing we need here, and it’s getting crowded.” He begins making his way out of the booth, careful of the little girl who’s got her nose barely over the table’s edge to peek at the old radios and VCRs. Her grandma pulls her closer, giving Keith’s piercings a wary look. 

Lance shucks the camera’s strap off his neck, before setting it back down on the table, once more at home in a sea of beat up Kodaks and old Canons and the stray Nikon or two. Lance retrieves his iced coffee from the table and follows Keith back out into the aisle, giving the booth’s owner a wave goodbye. 

It’s ass o’clock in the morning on a Sunday, and Keith and Lance are smack dab in the middle of the biggest flea market in the tristate area. Despite the early hour, and the fact that it’s late September, the sun is beating down hot on the asphalt. Lance lifts the snapback from his head just long enough to swipe at the sweat beading over his brow. It’s worth it though, suffering the heat and the crowds, to watch Keith flit from booth to booth, making grudging small talk with the vendors, a couple of paperbacks he’s already bought tucked under one arm. 

What treasures Keith thinks he’s going to find between the booths of garage sale style junk and tube socks is a bit of a mystery to Lance, but he doesn’t mind following him around from aisle to aisle. Lance suspects that Keith just likes the stories that accompany some of the items, and the easy going atmosphere of the market, and the promise of good memories. 

(“My dad liked flea markets.” Keith told him once, on the way back from the first one they went to together, his tone short in the way that it sometimes gets when he’s talking about something he finds difficult. “There was one we went to together when I was a kid in Texas.” He frowned down into his hands, trying to recall precious details and failing. “It was bigger than this one. But the same feel.”

And so how could Lance possibly say no, when Keith asks him lightly the night prior, like it means nothing at all, “Wanna go with me tomorrow morning?” There’s no way he’d decline. He’d say yes to a journey into deep space if it meant Keith would respond with that almost-shy smile and “Cool.”) 

(Lance also suspects that Keith’s love for this place is not entirely unrelated to the food truck near the entrance that sells waffles smothered in chocolate and ice cream.)

Thus fueled by chocolate chips and whipped cream and maple syrup, Keith dives into another booth, this one selling mostly china and glassware. 

“How much?” Keith asks the seller, indicating a set of five cups, vaseline glass green. They’re hideous. 

The woman has a friendly, round face, but shrewd eyes. “Twenty-four.”  

Lance looks over Keith’s shoulder, arms snaking around his waist. He whispers in Keith’s ear: “Really babe? They don’t match our  _ aesthetic _ …”

The “aesthetic” of their apartment is mostly ‘hand-me-downs from Lance’s older brothers and Ikea circa 2016,’ but it’s the  _ principle _ of the matter. Lance just likes to give Keith a hard time. 

“They’re cool,” Keith hisses back, disagreeing. But he doesn’t try to shrug Lance off. 

Lance sets his chin on Keith’s shoulder, giving the offending glasses in Keith’s hands a nasty look. “We can do ten,” he tells the woman. 

“Twenty,” she counters. 

“Twelve.” Lance says, squeezing Keith tighter against his chest as he gets into it. Normally he might try to be charming, but haggling is not for weak-at-heart. This is serious. 

“Eighteen.” She says. “Final offer.” 

Lance huffs. “Well!” 

“How about fifteen and I’ll throw in one clingy boyfriend for free?” Keith cuts in, finally shrugging Lance off his shoulders. Lance gives him a look of absolute betrayal, which Keith ignores. 

The woman cracks a smile, her shrewd-eyes turning kind as they crinkle in amusement. “I’ll pass on the boyfriend.” A tall, slim woman with a bob haircut and a fanny pack around her waist is running the booth with her; she’s not in need of a boyfriend. “Fifteen it is.” 

Keith sticks out his hand and they shake on it, exchanging cash and pleasantries, while Lance chews on the plastic straw of his coffee in indignation.

“Have you not tortured me enough?” Lance wails, flinging an arm over his head dramatically as Keith keeps walking deeper into the market. They continue on. 

It’s nearly forty minutes later when Lance sees it. He drops the garish Hawaiian shirt he was considering---half because he looks damn good in patterns and half because it would probably make Keith combust in irritation---and breathes out a heavy “Keiiiith.” 

Keith looks at the shirt. “No.” 

“Not the shirt, dude.” Lance switches the bag with the green cups to his other hand, as he moves past Keith to get a better look. 

“Again, no,” Keith says when Lance pulls out a box from the bottom of a pile of board games. 

The yellowing box reads ‘O U I J A’ in bold, simple letters across the front. In subscript, ‘The Mystical Oracle,’ it continues, ‘Wonderful Talking Board.’ 

Keith crosses his arms. “Lance.” 

“Keith.” 

The seller comes over to them. He’s a big guy, his most noticeable features being an eye-patch over his right eye and muttonchop style sideburns. (You really see all kinds at the flea market, Lance has found). “You boys like the supernatural?” he asks, tone almost hostile. 

“You could say that,” Lance titters, watching Keith bristle out of the corner of his eye. 

“Well.” The man is not as friendly as most of the vendors. He nods towards the box in Lance’s hand. “That there is a unique piece. It’s one of the Fuld era ouija boards,” he pronounces it wrong, like oh-we-jah, “made in the 40s before the Parker Brothers or Hasbro got the patent.” 

The man’s claims seem to be easily substantiated; when Lance opens the box, the board is thicker than a standard cardboard game board, almost like plywood. The design is simple, just the iconic black letters and numbers. Despite the board’s age, each one is a rich, saturated black, so dark they almost look like the ink is still wet. 

“It’s a nice find, but I’d like to be rid of it, if I’m honest,” the man says. “But I won’t sell it to just anyone. And even then, it’ll cost ya.” 

Keith puts the tattered lid back on the box. “We’re not interested.” 

“I let you get the cups!” Lance argues.

“The cups are not going to invite demonic entities into our lives.” Keith replies. 

“Psh.” Lance waves a hand. “That’s all a bunch of bullshit. Keith. Seriously. You believe that?” 

Keith shrugs, noncommittal. 

“Ohmigosh, you’re scared!!!!” Lance is delighted. Absolutely elated. Keith---nerves of steel, badass, ghost hunting, Keith Kogane---is scared. “You!! Mr. I Chat With Dead People On The Regular! Mr. My Ideal Friday Night Involves Stomping Around a Mausoleum! Are deadass scared of a corny board game!” 

“And you’d be fine with it?” Keith says, leaning closer. “Really?” 

Lance swallows. Truth be told, if anyone else had asked him if he wanted to fuck around with an ouija board, his answer would be a resounding ‘hell to the no.’ But. An idea is forming in his mind. And it’s just too good to pass up. “Yeah,” he lies, smirk in place. “Aren’t you curious?” 

Keith studies him, clearly not convinced. “I’ve read a lot about them,” he finally admits. “A vintage board really is a good find.” 

“We’ll take it.” Lance tells the vendor, handing over his credit card. 

Ten minutes, and three booths later, Keith is still a little salty about it. “I can’t believe you actually bought that.” He shakes his head, picking up an ashtray that looks like a bear and turning it over in his hands as if to inspect the craftsmanship.

“Hey at the very least, we could use it in a video.” Lance tries. He picks up a Stetson cowboy hat and thinks about trying it on before deciding better of it. 

Keith raises an eyebrow at him. “Sure Lance, and maybe after that we can do the cinnamon challenge? Maybe a ‘what I eat in a day’ vid? My boyfriend does my makeup?” 

“Alright, alright,” Lance holds up his hands in surrender, the bag with the box and the cups swinging dangerously close to a rather impressive array of Precious Moments figurines. “The ouija board video is a no-go. I get it. You think it’s bad news. I get it. But….are you really mad at me?” 

“I’m not mad,” Keith tells him. He takes Lance’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “C’mon,” he says, tugging Lance gently across the aisle to a booth with a bunch of model planes. “This shit looks awesome.” 

*

**To Pidge:** Piiiiiiiiiiiii 

**To Pidge:** dddd

**To Pidge:** geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

**From Pidge:** Lance 

**To Pidge:** :) 

**From Pidge:** I refuse 

**To Pidge:** no pidgey, you really don’t 

**To Pidge:** because this involves a prank 

**To Pidge:** a prank SO GOOD 

**To Pidge:** I’m talking possibly metaphysical levels of trolling  

**To Pidge:** it’s time to pay keith back for all the shit he’s pulled on me 

**From Pidge:** I’m listening 

*

See, the thing is: Keith is the worst. 

The actual worst. 

Okay, no, that’s a lie. 

Lance (and literally everyone else in his life) know that he has been literally  _ gone  _ on Keith since day numero uno. Since Keith walked into the cruddy dive bar where they met, dressed in black leather and his trademark scowl. Maybe he was gone even before that, when Lance binge watched all Keith’s videos because he couldn’t tear himself away from Keith’s quiet smile and downturned eyes. One good look at those eyes and it was too late for Lance.  

Now that they’ve been dating awhile---just over a year actually!---Lance is even more smitten, if that’s possible. He falls a little bit more in love every time he hears Keith’s hoarse, jilting giggle, or watches him covertly lick the ends of his fingers after eating something sweet, or feels him melt under his touch as Lance runs lazy hands through his messy hair after sex. 

The way Keith mumbles to himself in the shower or while he does the dishes or putters around their apartment. 

The smell of him after he gets off his bike---windswept and cigarettes and the cheap strawberries and cream VO5 shampoo Lance can’t get him to stop using. 

How much of a tight-ass he is about money, scrimping on groceries and budgeting every cent, only to donate to any and all cat related go-fund-me stories he runs across online. (“Peanut’s vet bill, Lance,” Keith tells him, misty-eyed and clicking through the photos.) 

The way he is now, ankles crossed in Lance’s lap, arms folded across his chest, fast asleep on the opposite end of the sofa. The novelty glo-in-the-dark ghost boxers Lance bought him as a joke are riding up his thighs as he snores softly, head lolling back on the couch cushions, out like a light as soon as Lance turned on the game. 

But! 

Lance hasn’t forgotten Keith playing poltergeist the first month they moved in together. His heart may have momentarily stopped when he saw the chairs pulled out from the table, and all the kitchen cabinets inexplicably open. 

He hasn’t forgotten the time when Keith made him watch a horrifying documentary on the Fresno nightcrawlers and then hung a pair of pants on the patio, nearly making Lance shit his own. (It didn’t help that he might have been  _ sliiiightly _ tipsy at the time, and Keith was too, traipsing around, blush-faced, repeating, “I dunno Lance, those don’t look like  _ my _ jeans,” and snickering.) 

He definitely hasn’t forgotten last year’s New Year’s Eve party when Keith told Shiro to tell Lance that Keith was missing. Lance practically turned Pidge and Matt’s apartment upside looking for him, while Shiro trailed behind him, offering unhelpful commentary like, “Well, his bike’s still here,” and “I don’t think he would go far,” and “Can you remember the last thing he said to you?” The big jerk knew the whole time that Keith was under Matt’s bed. When Keith’s pale hand shot out from under the bed and wrapped around Lance’s ankle, Lance swears he saw his life pass before his eyes. He made the most undignified noise ever, and the brothers wept with laughter. Assholes. 

Not to mention the many, many sleepless nights Lance has spent holding a camera and swearing that he’s not going to make it out alive: 

The run-down butcher’s shop where a knife shifted across the counter of its own volition. 

The old police station where the radio kept going haywire. 

A harrowing night near the lake, woods all around, and Keith kept shushing him because he heard footsteps on the dock behind them. 

Okay, so the haunted videos are kinda what he signed up for. That’s fine. But the point still stands: Keith deserves to get a taste of his own medicine. 

Lance, ever so carefully, lifts Keith’s wooly-sock-clad feet from his lap, attempting to extricate himself from the couch without waking Keith up. 

“Ar’we winning?” Keith mumbles without opening his eyes. 

Lance could tell Keith that the referee decided to end the game in favor of having the players square-dance around the 50 yard line, and Keith wouldn’t know the difference. He’s not all that into football. “We’re kicking ass,” he reassures him, tucking a bit of hair behind Keith’s ear. 

Keith makes a pleased noise in response, stretching out his legs now that he has the full couch to himself. The crankier of Keith’s two cats, Black, gives Lance the stink-eye as he sneaks out to the garage.

He pops open the trunk of his car, taking a look at the ouija board. Keith had misgivings about bringing it into the apartment, and Lance wasn’t too keen on arguing. It really is a creepy thing, the box all old and musty, and the board in perfect condition. Lance picks up the planchette and turns it around in his fingers, pulling out his phone to dial Hunk with his other hand. He picks up on the second ring. 

“Hunk! Buddy! You watching this thing?”

He can hear Hunk’s oven swing shut and the drone of the football game in the background as Hunk responds. “Yeah man, I don’t know. Kind of a shitshow.” 

Lance hums in agreement. “It’s still early in the season, they’ll get it together. Whatcha making?” 

“Wings.” Hunk launches into a lengthy explanation of the process for said chicken wings and their various sauces that leaves Lance’s mouth watering. 

“Dude. Duuuude. Why am I not over there?” Lance tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder. The planchette is light in his hands, although it’s made of metal. Bronze? No, flimsier than that. Tin maybe? Aluminum? It’s the standard design, almost heart-shaped, with a hole in the middle. It’s thin, and the edges are sharp, tapering to a wicked point on one end. 

Hunk laughs. “Come over next week. I’ll make spaghetti and the garlic bread that you and Keith like so much.” 

“Yessss!!! It’s a plan, man.” Lance pauses, a slow smirk making its way across his face. “Speaking of plans….” 

“You sure you wanna do this, Lance? I mean,” 

“Hunk. Did you forget about New Year’s? And the pants thing? Okay! Keith has it coming to him!!” 

“If you say so.” 

Lance inspects the planchette more closely. The metal surface doesn’t have any letters or markings, but there does seem to be a scratch down one side. He holds it flat, shifting it under the light to see. He continues in a wheedling voice: “I’ve never pulled anything off like this. Pidge is in. I need your help too!! Besides, it’s not like you even believe in ghosts, right?” 

Hunk breathes out. “I’m a man of science.” He pauses and Lance can perfectly picture Hunk wrinkling his forehead and narrowing his eyes, the way he does just prior to a nervous rant. “But I mean! I’ve seen you guys’ videos! And, like, this is some pretty freaky stuff man! I’m just saying, maybe you should---” 

“Woah, woah, big guy. Cool your jets.” Lance peers at the surface of the planchette, holding it up in front of his face. “I’m not asking you to perform an exorcism or some shit. It’s just a little prank. And---” 

Something moves across the garage. 

Through the hole of the planchette, Lance sees it, a blur of white, moving on the other side of the garage. He yelps, stumbling backwards, fumbling the thing----he slices open his index finger on the planchette’s edge. He swears, sending the small piece of metal skittering across the concrete. The clatter of his phone echoes throughout the garage as he drops it on the ground as well. 

“Fuck!” Lance looks around, eyes searching the side of the garage. There’s nothing there. His index finger is bleeding; he clutches it in his opposite hand to put pressure on the shallow wound. “The fuck was that?” There’s nothing there, he finds, heart beating wildly as he bends to pick up the phone. “Hunk? You still there?” 

“Lance? What happened?”

Lance breathes out a laugh. Even to his ears, it sounds forced. “Nothing. I’m just a butterfingers, dropped my phone. That’s all.” 

The conversation continues, but Lance can’t seem to concentrate. He keeps looking over at the other side of the garage, trying to figure out what it was that he saw. There’s a shelf with a couple of boxes on it---Christmas decorations---and a small toolbox that Keith has to do minor maintenance on his bike. Nothing white. Nothing moving. Lance retrieves the planchette from where it slid across the floor. 

When Lance goes back inside, he makes sure that the planchette is tucked inside the box, and the trunk of his car is securely latched. 

He doesn’t say anything about the experience to Keith. 

*

Two weeks later, a full moon is rising on a chill October night. ‘Tis officially the season of spooks, and Lance is determined that Keith is about to get his: 

“Breaker, breaker, this is Big Blue, the chicken is returning to the coop, I repeat, the chicken is returning to the coop, over.” 

“Copy that, Blue. Yellow and Green are in our designated positions, over.” 

As though incredibly world weary, Pidge rattles a sigh into the three way call. “If we have to do this, I should have a better code-name than Green.” 

“....”

“Hello?” Pidge’s tone conveys their mounting irritation. “Uh, hello?” 

“No one is gonna respond until you say ‘over,’ over.” Hunk hisses. 

“Over over!” Pidge snarks into the phone. 

Lance snorts out a laugh. “Okay but really, he should be there soon. You guys got this?” 

“Oh we got it alright.” 

“Team Punk, at your disposal.” 

Hunk is just outside the garage, near the back door leading into Keith and Lance’s shared apartment. He’ll sneak in, through the patio, after Keith is inside. Pidge is out of sight in the second bedroom---the one that Keith and Lance use for filming and editing videos. Pidge has a camera rigged up to monitor the kitchen and their computer is equipped for the night’s events. Lance is waiting for Keith to get home. Everything is ready. 

The roar of Keith’s motorcycle echoes as he pulls into the garage, then cuts out as he shifts it into park. It’s time. 

….

….

  
  


“What’s taking so long?” Lance hisses into his phone. “Hunk?” 

“Uhhh...I think he’s waiting for the song to end.” 

Sure enough, the sound of Keith’s warbly voice drifts in: “.....Thunder only haaaappens when it’s raiiiiiiinin’.... players only love you when they’re playinnn….” 

Lance sighs. “Keith is so fuckin’ cute.”

Pidge sighs for an entirely different reason. “It’s cute that you think so.”

Hunk’s voice is urgent: “Okay, okay!! He’s coming in. Lance, you ready?” 

After adjusting the earbud one last time to make sure his hair covers it, Lance claps his hands. “Alright you two, just like we planned. I’m going silent now, so Pidge, you’re our eyes in the sky. Hunk, buddy, we got one chance, so let’s make it count. It’s showtime!” 

The bolt turns over in the door. Keith enters; the room is dark. He drops his bag to the floor. “Lance?” he calls, uncertain. He flips the switch, but the light doesn’t turn on. 

“Hey babe.” Lance lowers his voice into a sensuous whisper. He strikes a match, lighting a candle. “I’m glad you’re home. I thought tonight we might have a little bit of fun.” 

(“Oh my goooood,” Pidge groans into the mic.) 

“Yeah?” Keith asks, dark eyes scanning down Lance’s long frame, leaning against the doorway. 

“Yeah,” Lance breathes, moving aside to reveal the set up. 

Their small kitchen table is covered in a black cloth. The kitchen curtains are drawn tight, allowing barely any moonlight to seep through. Lance takes the candle in his hands and uses it to light several others, revealing the ouija board in the table’s center. The planchette rests neatly atop the board, ready for use. 

Keith sighs. “Lance,” he starts---

“Relax, babe,” Lance croons in his ear, gently pulling the familiar leather jacket off his shoulders, “I got you,” 

(“Are we trying to seduce him or scare him, Lance?” Pidge mutters.) 

“Both!” Lance coughs, resuming his ministrations, “Both of us have had a long week. This’ll be fun.” 

Keith raises his eyebrows. 

Lance crosses his fingers that Keith will go along with the plan. He gives Keith his sweetest, most innocent look, like,  _ please babe, for me? _

Keith responds with a dubious frown, like,  _ really? This is what you want?  _

He caves: “Okay. If you’re sure you want to do this.” 

Lance cheers. “Yesssss!” 

Keith digs a notebook and a pen out of his bag. If they’re going to do this---they’ll do it right. He pulls out a chair, indicating that Lance should do the same. Lance sits, feeling strangely thrilled, his heart thumping with nerves although he’s supposed to be the one doing the scaring. Hopefully his hands don’t shake. He lifts them up, ready to place two fingers lightly on the planchette. 

Keith stops him, holding a hand up. “I assume you know the rules we’re supposed to follow?” 

Lance rolls his eyes. Since when is Keith ‘Mr. Follow the Rules’ anyways? “Uh, yeah. Obviously.” He’s read at least one wiki-how article on ouija boards. He’s practically an expert.  

“Alright.” Keith smiles, excited now, the shadow from the candlelight deepening his dimples. Lance has to resist the urge to forget about the prank and just kiss him right then and there. (But, that’s probably against the ouija board rules. And Hunk and Pidge are both watching). 

Each of them places two fingers lightly on the planchette. Keith clears his throat, the rasp of his low voice rich in the dark, “Hello. Is there anyone here, any spirits, with us tonight?” 

The planchette twitches under their fingers. Keith grins at Lance. “We’d like to communicate with you, using this board. Is anyone here with us?” 

The pointer shifts, dragging itself across the board, stopping over “Yes.” 

Lance swallows, pushing down the mounting fear. _ It’s not real, _ he reminds himself. Magnets and computer bullshit. Pidge is in the next room over, controlling the game piece’s path with lines of code. 

Keith shifts in his seat, excited. “Okay.” He picks up the pen in his left hand (Keith is ambidextrous. For some inexplicable reason, Lance finds this extremely hot...just one more reason why he never stood a chance against this boy), “I’m Keith. This is Lance. With whom are we speaking?” 

Lazy figure eights drag their hands back and forth as the planchette shifts. Lance repeats the question: “What’s your name?” 

It starts to spell, fixing on each letter for a moment, before moving on to the next. 

M-I-S-T-

“Misty?” Lance coos, “Sounds cute,” 

“Lance,” Keith scowls. “Let them finish!” 

E-R-H-O-W-D-Y

“Mister...Howdy?” Lance wonders. 

Keith looks puzzled. 

_ ‘We’re losing him!’  _ Lance mentally shouts. _ ‘C’mon, Pidge!’  _

A bang coming from the living room makes them both jump.  _ Good ol’Hunk. _ Always reliable. “Mister Howdy, do you have anything you want to say?” Lance asks, not quite sure what to do next. Nothing happens so he asks another question: “How did you die?” 

The planchette is still. “Mister Howdy,” Keith tries, “Do you need help moving on to the next world?” 

Nothing. 

“Hey Mister Howdy!” Lance hollers. What is Pidge doing? “Can you hear us asking you questions over here or what?” Lance reaches under the table with his free hand, covertly pushing a button. The table underneath the board starts to shake. 

All of a sudden, the planchette goes wild. It zig-zags across the board violently, coming back over and over again to the word ‘No.’ 

No. No. No. 

No. 

The room seems to get darker. The moon going behind a cloud? One of the candles flickers out. Then another. A draft? The kitchen cabinets tremble, the dishes clattering inside. Lance wonders how Hunk is managing that effect. He swallows, nervous, fingers still at the edge of the pointer. His hands are starting to sweat. 

“M-mister,” Lance’s voice comes out shaky so he starts again: “Mister Howdy what---” 

The planchette starts to spell again, direction to the wild movement. Only this time it’s much faster, each letter in quick succession: 

R-E-S-O-L-C-R-E-S-O-L-C-R-E-S-O-L-C-R-E-S-O-L-C

Keith can’t keep up, scrawling the letters as fast as they are spelled on the board, but it’s the same pattern, repeating: 

**-C-R-E-S-O-L-C-R-E-S-O-L-C-**

It moves ever faster: 

**RESOLCRESOLCRESOLC** **_RESOLC_ **

Something bangs, deafening in the silent apartment. Lance forgets himself, jerking his hands closer to his chest instinctively. “Fuck--” 

As soon as his hands are off the planchette, it zings off the table, faster than Lance’s eyes can track in the dark. He hears it  _ thwap, _ as it makes contact with the opposite wall, not sliding to the floor, but the sharp edge impaling it in the drywall. 

(“Uhhh…” Pidge is at a rare loss of words). 

Both Lance and Keith whip around as they hear footsteps coming from the living room. A figure appears in the doorway. Its face is horrible, blood dripping from the eye sockets, mouth pulled into a terrible sneer. 

Keith tilts his head. “Hunk?” 

The figure lifts up its arms, menacing. 

Keith holds up a candle, rising from his seat to get a closer look. “Hunk. What are you doing here...what’s with the mask?” 

Lance sighs, turning off the shaking table. “Dude. Not cool.” 

Hunk takes off the mask. His hair is sticking up from the static. “I thought that was my cue?” 

Lance motions over to Keith, who is now standing in the middle of their kitchen, holding a candle, looking a little bewildered. “Uh, no. Does he look scared to you???” 

Hunk looks at Keith. Keith, in turn, pulls his eyes up from the mask in his hands to blink up at his face, questioning. Hunk shakes his head. “Nope, he’s definitely not scared.” 

“Pidge,” Lance sighs again, collapsing face first on to the table. “Lights.” 

The kitchen lights flick on. Lance blows out the remaining candles. Pidge appears moments later, walking in from the spare bedroom, “Well boys, the jig is up.” 

“There was a jig?” Keith wonders. 

“You were supposed to be pissing-your-pants-terrified, Keith. What the hell?” Lance whines. 

“Oh.” Keith looks at the board and then back at Lance. “I was?” He sees Lance’s expression and then nods his head. “I was. Terrified, I mean. Yeah.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Lance shakes his head. 

Pidge studies the planchette notched in the wall. “Hm. This is weird. It shouldn’t have had nearly this much force.” They remove it, careful of the edges, looking at the magnets on the underside. 

“Ah,” Keith says, understanding. “So you were moving the pointer?” He has the gall to look disappointed. This guy. 

“Well, at first, but---” 

Hunk interrupts. “Okay now that the scary part is over: I brought enchiladas!” 

“Hell yeah you did!” Pidge cheers, forgetting their previous train of thought. They push past Lance to get into the fridge and retrieve a container of Hunk’s unparallelled guacamole. 

*

An hour later, Pidge has eaten more enchiladas than any human their size should be able to hold, and Hunk is threatening to make them a to-go plate on top of that. Lance is perched on the kitchen counter, running his mouth and taking both sides as they squabble---growing up as the youngest in a large family has made him an expert in needlessly prolonging arguments that he has no stake in---while Keith is just quietly sitting in the background, clearly content. When they catch each other’s eyes across the kitchen and Keith gives him a little smile, Lance can’t find it in himself to be upset about the prank’s failure. 

Keith and Lance say goodbye to their friends, Lance hanging off of Hunk dramatically, as if he doesn’t have plans to see him the day after tomorrow. Pidge is cranky because they have to go back to work---it’s the middle of the night, but Lance doesn’t question it, he still has no idea what Pidge does for a living---but at least they have a stomach full of good food to sustain them. Keith waves from the door, fingers curling awkwardly as they get into their respective vehicles. 

“Hey,” Keith breathes out after the door is closed, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. 

“Mmm?” Lance is already halfway in the kitchen, piling the dishes in the sink. Washing them, however, is a problem for tomorrow’s Keith and Lance. 

“Uh.” Keith runs a hand through his hair. “I guess I just want to say thanks?” 

Lance raises one perfectly arched brow, giving him a quizzical frown. “You’re welcome...? For what?” 

Keith sinks down into one of the chairs at the table. He looks at the floor, twisting one of the studs in his ear. “I didn’t---I never. I mean, I guess I still can’t believe that---that I have  _ this _ ...friends and….” He motions to Lance who has paused in his tidying, mostly-eaten-bag-of-tortilla-chips still in hand. “A few years ago…” He shakes his head, dropping his hands back into his lap. The smile he gives Lance when he looks up is crooked and a little wistful. “My life was not like this.” 

Lance sets the chips down, joining Keith near the table. Keith, still sitting, wraps his arms around him, pressing his face into Lance. Standing over him, Lance returns the awkward hug. Keith, even now, very rarely shares anything about his past. Lance kisses the top of his head, heart too full.  _ You have me now and always, Keith, and you never have to thank me for that. _ The thought is vehement and weighty and a little too true for him to say out loud. He says instead, soft tone spoiling the joke: “Keith, I hereby promise:  _ I will not stop _ until you are absolutely scared shitless, no matter how many stupid pranks I have to pull. Deal?”  

Keith tightens his grip around Lance. His response is muffled. “Deal.” 

Lance clambers onto Keith’s lap. It’s not comfortable for either of them, because this is a kitchen chair and Lance is tall and skinny, but the embrace is at least a little more even. Lance lifts up Keith’s bangs to smack a kiss against his forehead before he starts talking again, much more animated. “So the method Pidge devised for moving the pointer was actually pretty cool!” He launches into an explanation of just how incredibly extra this prank really was, hands gesturing wildly in between them. 

Keith listens intently, his own hands resting on Lance’s hips. “....and the shaking table?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

Pidge might be a computer genius and Hunk is an engineering god, but the shaking table? That was  _ allll _ Lance. He snickers and leans back slightly to hook his arm under the table. He frowns in concentration for a minute, peeling something off the the underside, then holds the object up triumphantly. Black, smooth, shaped just so. Keith squints. “Is that?”

“Oh this?” Lance asks innocently. He holds the piece delicately in his hands, as though it is a scientific marvel, and not an anal vibrator that he bought from a skeevy website in a fit of horniess during his college years. He presses the button. “Multiple speeds and all of them silent and deadly, baby. Though she be but little, she is FIERCE.” Lance adds as an afterthought: “And curved for your pleasure.” 

Keith misses Lance’s finishing wink as he now has both hands over his face, and he’s shaking with laughter. “Lance,” he wheezes, “what the actual fuck.” 

“I’m very resourceful.” Lance beams.  

“Is that what they call it?” Keith asks, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes before pulling Lance closer in his lap. His hands slip underneath the back of Lance’s shirt; his mouth is at Lance’s throat, kissing down to where his neck meets shoulder. Lance tilts his head to accommodate, waving the vibrator around as he makes his point. 

“Resourceful. Charming. Devilishly handsome. Just a few of the many adjectives I’ve been call-ahh---” 

Lance trails off abruptly---Keith wraps his arms around Lance, and rises to his feet, taking Lance with him. He sets Lance on the table. Over the course of dinner with their friends, the black tablecloth along with Keith’s notebook and the ouija board were pushed to the side. Now they fall to the floor in a heap.  

Keith’s hands are on his face, holding him still, one thumb stroking along his cheekbone as they kiss. Lance grins against his mouth, playfully hooking one leg around Keith, hands on his chest. The prank might have been a failure, but the night is far from over. 

The kiss becomes heated----Keith’s mouth is impatient, chasing after Lance’s like a quick retort. Lips catch teeth, and Keith is undone. His hands are now on Lance’s hips, paradoxical as they pull Lance closer, close enough for their bodies to be flush together, but also hold him in place, pinning him firmly so that Lance doesn’t slip off. Lance lifts his shirt over his head and tosses it to the side before helping Keith with his. He doesn’t make it easy for Lance, unwilling to pause as his mouth moves lower, kissing further down Lance’s neck, his chest, appreciative of any newly exposed skin. 

Since Keith’s shirt is proving too difficult, Lance goes instead for the button of Keith’s jeans. He flicks it open, hands immediately taking advantage of the new space, sliding under the waistband of Keith’s boxers. Keith tightens his hold, and Lance can feel a pleased groan in the form of a rumble against his skin. 

Keith pushes him backwards, lifting Lance’s ass to have him shimmy out of his own pants. “Really, Keith?” Lance smirks, stretching arms upward and arching his back  _ just  _ so. “On the kitchen table?” 

Predictably, Keith likes what he sees. He runs one hand down Lance’s torso, pupils already dilated wide in his dark eyes, flattening Lance’s back to the table. “Really, Lance.” He says, the rasp in his voice turning husky. 

“Good thing I already pulled the curtains then,” Lance quips. Keith rolls his eyes. His irritation would be a lot more convincing if 1) he wasn’t already noticeably very hard, and 2) his hand wasn’t wrapped around Lance’s dick. 

“Well, I don’t know what  _ you’re _ into Keith,” Lance starts---this is a lie, by this point he knows exactly what Keith is into--- “but I, for one, would not like to give the neighbors a s-show.” He only stutters a little when Keith lowers his mouth to his cock. 

“Lance, can you concentrate?” Keith asks, mouth on the side of Lance’s cock, like this is a math problem they’re trying to solve, and not Keith giving Lance an impromptu blowjob on the kitchen table. He doesn’t wait for Lance to answer, but instead takes Lance into his mouth. 

“Ah! Ah! Your mouth! Your tongue!! Mmmmm!” Lance moans theatrically in his best porn voice. He lays it on thick: “Keith! My wild stallion! You have the mouth of a god! My whole body is thrumming with orgasm!!!” 

Keith pulls off, giggling. His face is flushed and his mouth is wet and he might be the most beautiful thing Lance has ever seen. “Wild stallion? You went from porn into a full on bodice-ripper,” he laughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Amazing.”  

“Keith.” Lance chides, pushing him with a foot. “Concentrate.” 

Keith pinches his thigh in retaliation, but does, indeed concentrate. He keeps one hand on the base of Lance’s cock and sucks----and suddenly the sounds Lance is making are not theatrical: they’re garbled, throaty moans that sound like Keith’s name spliced with expletives. 

Lance rolls his hips upward, just slightly, fingers buried deep in Keith’s hair, one leg tossed carelessly over his shoulder. He’s so caught up in Keith’s mouth---his hot, perfect mouth---that he almost fails to notice Keith’s free hand blindly searching along the table. “Ke--ah! Fu---”

Keith ignores him, but finds his target---the vibrator. Sucking lazily at Lance’s tip, he thumbs along the toy, one square nail pushing the button, testing out the different speeds. He pulls off Lance with an obscene pop.

Lance’s eyes flutter open and his chest heaves. “Keeith,” he whines, reaching down to stroke himself if Keith is going to be a tease. Keith moves his hands away, eyes flicking towards Lance’s. With a smirk that can only be described as  _ indecent _ , Keith decides on a speed and lowers the toy. 

He holds it against Lance’s cock, his hand encircling both the toy and Lance, and Lance jolts. “Keith! Fuck, Keith---ahn, I---” 

“Good,” Keith says, and at first Lance thinks it’s a question, he nods, breath hitching in his chest before he can form any coherent thoughts to respond. But then Keith repeats it, not a question, “Good, Lance, so good for me---god, you look so--” He’s murmuring against Lance’s inner thigh, kissing, mouth moving against him mercilessly, ignoring the way Lance squirms underneath him, hands pushing feebly against Keith’s shoulders. 

Lance has dribbled a mess onto his stomach. He tries to move, but Keith is holding him and he can’t get the purchase he needs, too caught in the onslaught of sensation to figure it out, only that he wants more. “Keith---want, fuck---want you, c’mon---” 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees. He stands, tongue swiping over swollen lips as he surveys the absolute mess that is Lance at the moment and makes a decision. Without another word he has Lance off the table and wrapped around him, in his arms. 

And, yeah, carrying him is a little much, but on the other hand, Lance doubts very much if he could stand right now. His legs feel like---like, uh---like---

\---actually he doesn’t have the presence of mind for a simile to describe what his legs feel like. “C’mon,” Lance just barely manages to repeat the whine as Keith takes one wobbly step towards their bedroom. 

Keith grunts an assent, tightening his hold on Lance’s thighs. He still has the vibrator. 

He can feel how hard Keith is---when he shifts, Keith stumbles, one shoulder knocking into the wall. 

“L-Lance,” Keith warns.

Lance repeats the motion, not at all sorry. It’s admirable that Keith is doing this best to get them to the bedroom---and more importantly, the lube---but that doesn’t stop him from being a little shit about it. 

Luckily for them both, it’s a short walk, and soon enough, Lance is ass up in the bed, lube and cum dripping down his thighs. He sobs into the sheets as Keith eats him out, sloppy, still coming down from his own first orgasm. “Fuuuu--ck-Keith, shit, Ke-Keith, Keith---” 

Unbothered, Keith takes his time withdrawing, taking one final, languorous sweep with his tongue before responding,  “Mmm?” 

Thighs still wobbling with the effort, Lance changes positions, pushing Keith back against the pillows. He wants, at the very least, to suck Keith off. 

“Lance---”

Taking in a haggard breath, Lance grins before he mouths down Keith’s chest, leaving a hickey as a nice addition to one of his tattoos. Keith likes it, he always does, eyes falling shut as he breathes out Lance’s name, and Lance kisses the spot sweetly before moving lower. He pauses over the lovely, dark hair on his tummy, trailing downwards, enjoying the way Keith’s fingers stutter against his scalp while his mouth works. 

He’s enjoying it so much, that, when Keith removes those fingers from his hair in favor of doing something else, Lance shoots him a look, complete with an eyebrow raised in annoyance like, _ excuse me??  _

The raised eyebrow goes unnoticed, however, as Keith is concentrating on flipping open the lube one handed while Lance blows him. He manages it, and finds the toy, and spreads his legs a little further apart. 

“Fuck---Keith---you--” Lance swears, as Keith begins to finger himself open. 

“Heh.” Keith’s voice is shaky, but he is definitely enjoying Lance’s reaction. “J-just hnn-giv-give me---shit,” his eyes roll back as his fingers find their mark. He breathes deep, steadying himself.  “Give me a minute.” 

Lance all but  _ whines _ , the image in front of him---Keith, still wet with his saliva, fucking himself first on his fingers and then with Lance’s vibrator---goes straight to his cock. He has his hands on himself, watching, “You look, Keith, you’re so fucking, ahn-- can I, want to---Keith,” 

“C’mere,” Keith says in response to his babbling, drawing him closer. 

It takes a moment to coordinate, maybe longer than it should, but when Lance slides down on Keith’s cock and realizes that he can feel the vibrations as well, he all but shouts. He pants the same air as Keith, chests heaving in tandem. “K-keith,” Lance manages, one clumsy hand against his cheek. Keith looks up at him in response, brows knit in concentration, hair spilt over the pillows, hands bruising Lance’s hips, just looking. Just  _ looking _ at Lance like he’s everything, like he’s nothing short of perfect. And then, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip caught in his teeth, he rolls his hips, and Lance sees stars. 

Lance rides him, incoherent as Keith fucks him overstimulated and perfect. When he comes again, he sees white.  

He passes out. 

*

Lance is not a morning person. 

Or rather, he is a does-not-willingly-leave-the-comfort-of-bed-until-it-is-absolutely-necessary person. When he wakes up the next day, this is as true as ever. 

Keith is pressed against him, head pillowed on Lance’s shoulder, one arm over Lance’s chest, their legs tangled together. He breathes softly, wrinkling his nose and pulling himself closer as soon as Lance starts to stir. 

Lance snuggles under the duvet, still half asleep himself. He feels good. Keith must’ve taken the time to clean them up a little bit after he fell asleep. He stretches, languid. Not too sore. That’s good. When Keith murmurs something in protest, he rubs a soothing palm down his back. 

“G’mornin’” Keith says, blinking and slow, as he sits up. He doesn’t really bother to untangle himself from Lance, leaning over him, eyes droopy with sleep. He looks at Lance’s face through half-awake eyes and then drops back down, this time tucking himself under his chin. 

“Excuse you, sleepyhead.” Lance says, mock indignation raising his voice enough to make it crack. 

“I know you just woke up too,” Keith mutters. 

“I did not!” Lance says, lying through his teeth. “I’ve been wasting away under your dead-weight for literal hours! Just burning daylight over here!” 

Keith snorts against his chest, and it should probably be gross, but. It’s not. “Dead weight,” he repeats under his breath, like this is the particularly funny part. 

“Yeah. Dead.” Lance pokes his side. “Weight.” He pinches Keith’s butt. 

Reflexes as fast as ever, Keith grabs his hand before he can pull it away. For a second Lance thinks he’s going to bite his fingertips, but instead, Keith brushes them against his mouth, kissing them softly. He places Lance’s hand on his face, nuzzling his cheek into it. When his eyes meet Lance’s again, they’re a little more awake. 

Lance moves his thumb, the pad of it ever so softly tracing Keith’s bottom lip. “Hey.” 

Keith smiles up at him, raising himself up enough to meet Lance in a soft kiss. “Hi,” he responds as his lips part from Lance’s. 

Keith is always an attentive lover, but drowsy morning sex with him is something else entirely. He’s almost reverent as he kisses over Lance’s wrist, before gently placing Lance’s hand on his back. He’s featherlight kisses and delicate hands, voice murmuring barely over a whisper. He looks down at Lance, settling over top of him as he guides their bodies together. His eyes are trained on Lance’s face, clear and cautious, as he pushes in, watching for the smallest sign of discomfort. Lance’s breath hitches---it’s good---and Keith mistakes it for pain. He stops, fingertips unconsciously stroking the scar on Lance’s thigh. Lance shakes his head, taking Keith’s hand, pulling him closer. “You’re good,” he assures, “M good, d-on’t stop,” Keith answers with kisses along his jaw, under his ear, against his thumping pulse. He fucks Lance slow and sweet. When he comes, it’s devout and overwhelmed, with Lance’s name tumbling from his lips like adoration.   

“Shower?” Lance asks later on, when their breathing has once more evened out. His hands pause over Keith’s back where they’ve been stroking, tracing over the marks he made the night before. Keith feigns sleep. Lance can spy him squeezing his eyes shut; he’s definitely faking. “Shower.” Lance decides. 

“You first,” Keith grumbles in resignation, making no attempt to get up. 

Lance wiggles a little bit, trying to remove himself from Keith’s hold. No use. He scoots as best he can. “Well I might actually be able to if  _ someone _ would let me!” 

Keith doesn’t open his eyes. “Huh. Almost thought I heard someone say something.” 

“I need to exfoliate, Keith!!” Lance proclaims, pushing him off. “My pores are the size of golf balls!”

“Oh shit.” Keith says, as though this is a very serious thing indeed. His eyes are still closed. He might really be falling back asleep. 

“Yeah,” Lance agrees. “Soon I’ll have caveman skin---maybe even as bad as yours!” 

No response. Keith is asleep. 

After a nice long shower and complete skincare regimen, Lance wakes Keith with a tenderest of  kisses. Yeah right. Not really. He actually just throws his wet towel on Keith’s face and snickers down the hall as he listens to Keith swear and nearly fall out of bed. 

Lance bustles around the kitchen, carelessly performing his morning routine: twisting the blinds to let in the mid-morning sunshine, swatting open the coffee maker and dumping some grounds in, pulling out a gallon of milk from the fridge, then forgetting to pour it over his cereal as he scrolls through his phone. An orange cat rubs against his legs. 

“Red-hot! My little R, my RiRi, my Reddy-or-not,” Lance scoops up Red, the sweeter of Keith’s two cats, and continues to coo at her while the coffee percolates. “How’s my best girl?” The cat regards him with amicable indifference.  

Lance sets her on the counter, pulling out a couple of coffee cups from the cabinet. He’s taking that first delicious caffeinated sip when he notices his boxers hanging off the side of the one of the kitchen chairs. “Whoops...” Lance grabs their discarded clothes, going around the table to gather his and Keith’s jeans (when did Keith take those off, exactly?), his shirt, Keith’s---

\---his brow furrows. 

The ouija board. Wasn’t it....

That’s not where….

It’s on top of the table. Squarely, almost exactly in the center of the table. The planchette rests atop, circle indicating the word “No.”

“Was that…?” Lance frowns, tilting his head. It seems like….

“Hey Lance, have you seen my---” Keith walks in, still a little sleepy, his fresh-from-the-shower-hair dampening the shoulders of his tee shirt. 

Lance hands him his Marlboro Reds and lighter from the pocket of his jacket. 

“Thank you,” Keith shakes one out, already on his way to the patio. 

_ He must’ve put it there after I fell asleep, _ Lance decides. He finds the game’s box and stows the board along with the pointer on one of Keith’s bookshelves in the spare bedroom. It fits snugly on top of a stack of Keith’s old textbooks. Lance frowns, taking a last look at it as he turns out the lights. He still feels unsettled for some reason...but the board is now tucked away, nice and safe. 

Still….kinda weird. 

“We’re almost out of coffee creamer,” Keith informs him when he comes back into the kitchen. He jiggles the container ominously. 

“What else did I say we needed?” Lance asks in response, grabbing the notepad they use for grocery lists from the drawer. 

“Cat food.” Keith says, around a spoonful of Frosted Mini Wheats. He crunches. 

“No. It was something else.” Lance says, tapping the pen against his mouth in thought. He writes down ‘cat food’ anyways. But that definitely wasn’t what he said. Paper towels? No.... “How much laundry detergent do we have left?”  

Keith shrugs, slurping his coffee. 

*

Next rest stop: fifty-six miles. 

Lance eyes the worn looking sign at the edge of the desolate two-lane highway as they pass. It seems they really are headed to the middle of nowhere. 

“In the eighties though, that’s when things  _ really  _ started happening,” Keith is telling him, flipping through his notes. “This was all taking place right before it got shut down for good. Okay, so there was this family, a boy and a girl and their parents, and they visited in---” 

“Keith, dude.” For the upteenth time, Lance fiddles with the temperature controls in his car. It’s chilly enough outside to warrant a sweatshirt, but too hot to have one on in the car.  “We’re not even there yet and you’re freaking me out.” 

“Oh. Should I stop?” 

Lance purses his lips. Lets out a resigned breath. “Nah.” He waves one hand. “Keep going. What terrible shit happened to the poor family?”  

It’s a few days later and Keith and Lance are driving to an amusement park to film their latest ghost hunting video. October is a big month for their channel, and Keith wanted to produce something memorable for the last video of the month, the one that will be going up just one day before Halloween. He considered at all the footage they’ve shot that hasn’t been published yet, and deemed none of it adequate for the Halloween upload. Shooting a completely new video during their busiest month puts them on a tight schedule, but Keith works well under pressure, and Lance works well with Keith. So here they are, mid-October and en route to an abandoned (and supposedly haunted) theme park.  

Lance looks over at Keith from the driver’s side. This is the most excited he’s been about a location in awhile. He’s been chatting almost non-stop the entire six hour car ride, referencing his various notes and even going so far as to pull up a couple images on his phone. His hair is pulled back in a messy top knot, but he keeps fiddling with a piece that’s fallen loose while he flips through his notebook, going over the gruesome details of the place they’re about to spend the night. 

“...the wounds were fatal, and that’s part of the reason why---Lance, slow down, this is our exit coming up,” 

“Of course it is,” Lance grumbles, taking his foot of the gas. The exit is non-descript, not even a traffic light at the intersection, just a single gas station on one side of the road. No cars at the pumps. Lance isn’t even sure the place is open, despite it being late afternoon on a weekday. “There’s literally nothing here, Keith,” Lance says, thinking that they should have used the gps afterall. 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees. “The park is about ten miles up the road, but we’re almost there!!” 

Alto Hills never grew into a big attraction. Even in its heyday it was a simple amusement park: nestled in hills miles away from any city, a modest assortment of rides and games. Nothing that could rival any of the big names like a Six Flags park or Universal or Disney. Still, back in the day, it must have had its own kind of charm, right?

After turning down an even narrower road branching off from the two lane highway, the first sign of Alto Hills crops up: a billboard showcasing what appears to be a roller coaster car and the park’s logo. The colors of the sign might’ve been bright at one time, but they’re faded now, and one of the panels has peeled away, making it difficult to discern anything in particular about the park. 

Soon enough, Lance is pulling the key from the ignition and getting some serious bad vibes. The parking lot is cracked concrete and faded lines and weeds and empty beer cans---long overgrown with disuse. And the trees surrounding the park shroud everything behind the gate, save for the bare bones of a few of the bigger rides looming tall in the distance. 

Yeah, whatever charm this place might have had is long gone. 

“We have about two and a half, maybe three hours left of light,” Keith says, hopping out of the car. He waits patiently while Lance gets out of the car much more cautiously, giving the park a suspicious glare through narrowed eyes. “Let’s get some nice shots of the gate and the main rides while it’s light, and then we can do the intro.” 

Lance pops the trunk, getting out their equipment. “Or we could turn back now, and---” 

Keith gives him a look. 

“Right, right, get some shots of the gate, you got it boss man,” Lance says, turning on his camera. He blows Keith an over dramatic kiss. “You know I’m just screwin’ around, babe. Let’s ghostbust this thing!!” 

Keith has his face turned down, checking the thermal cam, double checking his battery packs----but Lance doesn’t miss the subtle curve of his lips, the smile he’s doing his best to suppress. 

‘Alto Hills:’ the gate reads, white letters on a red archway over the entrance. It continues in smaller font: ‘The Thrills of a Lifetime.’ The paint is peeling, red and white chips that they have to step over as they make their way inside, ducking under a metal chain with a large CLOSED sign in the middle. The ticket booths on either side of the gate have had their windows broken; shards of glass litter the entrance way. 

Keith pulls out a map of the park, because of  _ course  _ he does, the places that he wants to investigate marked with little penciled-in stars. There’s two areas in which he wants to set up static cams, so they aim to do that first, walking deeper into the park. The entry pavillion leads into Main Street, a wide walkway lined with a gift shop and a few food stalls and some carnival-esque games. 

Places like this, places that were designed to be full of people, they just don’t  _ feel  _ right when they’re deserted. It’s not even nighttime yet, but the graffiti over the walls of the shops, the trash spilling out from the doorways, their interiors shrouded in darkness---it’s unsettling. Like there might be someone---some _ thing _ \---inside, watching them as they walk past. Lance picks up his pace to stay close at Keith’s heels.  

“Plenty of the original booths are still in good shape,” Keith narrates to his camera, panning over the games. He gets closer to one, the words ‘Lucky Ducky’ emblazoned over the top. 

Lance snorts. Not sure if ‘good shape’ is how he would describe the shooting gallery; half the counter is caved in, the backdrop is ripped, and only a few of the targets----duck shaped pieces of wood---are still intact. He sets down his camera and picks up a faux rifle from the ground in front of the game. He slings it over his shoulder, juts one hip out: his best sniper-with-an-attitude pose. “Hey Keith, wanna bet I can hit more targets than you?” 

Before Keith can respond, Lance positions the rifle, taking aim at one of the remaining yellow cut-outs. He exhales, closes one eye, and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He pulls it again. Nothing. So much for that. “Thing’s busted,” he decides, giving Keith a conciliatory shrug before setting the gun back on the counter. He picks his camera back up, turning away. “Anyways---” 

A scraping sound---metal against wood---makes him pause. He catches Keith’s expression, brow furrowed in slight confusion, and Lance turns towards the game, just in time to see the gun discharge----a metallic  _ pop _ that makes him jump. It’s not real gun, but it must have at least a little kickback because it rocks off the counter, falling to the pavement with an impressive crack. The sound echoes throughout the otherwise silent street. 

“Fuuuuuck,” Lance lets out a breath. A nervous thrill runs down his spine. “Keith,” 

“It must’ve been jammed,” Keith tells him, not at all shaken. He gives Lance a look that’s probably meant to be reassuring, but actually comes off as mildly annoyed. “C’mon, sharpshooter, we have a lot to cover and we’re losing light faster than I thought.” 

“Sharpshooter?” Lance chirps. “Fuck yeah I am! I would’ve kicked your ass at that game back in the day.” 

“I’m sure,” Keith says, in a tone that says, _ you really wouldn’t have, but I’ll let you think that because you’re cute.  _ Lance, naturally, does not let him get away with that kind of superiority, and soon has Keith outright disagreeing with him, as he goads him into an argument over theoretical combat skills. 

They continue onwards, setting up the stationary cameras and getting the preliminary shots that Keith wanted. When the sun is nearly set, they loop back around to the large fountain that marks the end of Main Street, essentially the very center of the park. The fountain has long since dried up; now the basin, an artificial, sickly blue, is lined with bits of trash and piles of decaying leaves.  It’s here, with the sun already hidden behind the tree line, that Keith begins the introduction. 

“Welcome back to our channel,” Keith says, narrating into his own camera. Lance ducks behind him and gives the lens a salacious wink, but he’ll mostly be offscreen, filming Keith and their surroundings. 

“Tonight we’re touring Alto Hills. At one time this was a beloved amusement park, a first of its kind in this area in many respects. For years, the rides and games here were a summertime staple of the community. But Alto Hills wasn’t just funnel cakes and ferris wheels...the darker moments from this place’s past lead some people to believe that not all the park’s guests have truly left this place.” 

Keith begins to walk. Foliage, overgrown from the gardens lining the path, soon becomes another large pavilion, this one carnival themed. “The park, in essence, began in 1941 when John and Mary Alto, the original owners of this land, allowed locals to gather here for a weekly farmer’s market of sorts. The street fair soon became large enough that it was not taken down during the week, and, in 1949, a carousel was added permanently, becoming the first official ride of Alto Hills.” 

Here he pauses. Keith loves recounting the history of places and people----Lance thinks that the painstaking research Keith does for the background information of the places they film is what makes their channel special. No doubt Keith knows this place inside and out, and he’ll probably add many more details of its history to the footage in a voiceover later. 

The aforementioned merry-go-round sits behind him, horses and figures frozen in their endless rotation. The mirrors lining the central cylinder, surrounded in painted gold gilt frames, are broken; their jagged edges cast the last vestiges of sunlight into the shadows. 

“This, unfortunately, also became the site of the first tragedy of Alto Hills.” Lance’s camera never strays from Keith’s figure as he effortlessly pulls himself up onto the stage of the carousel’s main platform. Keith’s heavy boots clunk as he weaves between the once gaudy colored horses. “In 1951, just twenty-six months after the carousel started operating, one of the guests, a little girl named Brittany Georges, somehow slipped underneath the false floor of the ride.” Keith indicates the heavy machinery at the ride’s core and underneath the figures. “She was caught between the main gears of the ride. The roar of the happy crowd and the carousel’s own music drowned out her screams as the turning ride slowly crushed her small body.” Keith pauses, his dark eyes somber as they meet the camera lens. “Her injuries were severe enough that she never even made it back to the park’s entrance, much less the hospital.”  

Lance shivers. The wind whistles through the trees, moving piles of leaves around the sidewalk. The sound it makes is almost mournful. The flashlight quivers in his hand. 

“Fuck that, Keith.” Lance says, quiet in the deepening night. “Why is this thing still here?” 

Keith nods. He drops down, sitting on the edge of the platform. “Because it was so soon after the ride’s opening, the Alto’s hadn’t even finished paying for the merry-go-round. Financially, it would have ruined the park, and the Altos. John Alto made the decision to keep the ride, despite the tragic event. It was back up and running not even six months later.” 

A rapid  _ click, click, click _ emanating from the ride’s core makes Lance’s breath catch in his chest. Keith holds up a hand, silencing them both, before turning on his EVP recorder. “Brittany, have you been listening to us talk?” 

Lance swears and then regrets it---she was little and he takes care not to swear in front of his little cousins or other kids. “Shit. I mean, shoot. Fu-forget this place, Keith, this is----” 

Keith ignores Lance, head tilted to one side like he heard something. Fuck this. He better not have heard----they’ve barely even started yet! Lance edges closer to him, trying to stay mindful of the shot. 

“If you have something to say, it’s alright.” Keith isn’t great with kids, but he seems to do okay if he thinks they’re ghosts. “Me and Lance here are friendly. We won’t hurt you. You can talk to us if you want.” 

Lance, on the other hand, _ is _ great with kids but bad with ghosts. Something knocks against the metal with a clang, and he loses it: “Ohmigosh, Keith, it’s the girl, it’s Brittany, she’s here, she’s mad, hell, I’m mad too, they should’ve gotten rid of this death trap, John Alto was a dick, shit--shoot--sorry! Brittany, don’t swear, it’s bad for kids---Fuck, you’re older than me by now, how does that work anyways---” 

“Will you shut up?!” Keith hisses. “How are we gonna hear anything with you blabbing!” 

“Well sue me for asking the important questions! Does ghost aging count as aging or not?”

“I don’t know!” Keit throws up his hands, “Why would anyone know that?” 

“Well, you’re supposed to be the expert here, Keith, I don’t know what kind of channel you’re running if you can’t even answer a simple question. I mean,” 

“Lance! Shhhh!” Keith holds up a hand, shushing him. Lance strains to hear anything, mouth shut. For now. 

They stay silent for a moment, listening to the wind, and the groan of worn metal settling after being long neglected, and the unmistakable silence of a wooded area at night. 

“That decision---the decision to keep the ride---was something John Alto would later regret.” Keith continues his monologue some moments later, after having once more stowed the EVP recorder in his bag. 

He hops off the carousel, walking towards the other attractions in this area. “After John’s death in 1965, his wife revealed that he believed the tragedy of the merry-go-round accident cursed the rest of the park.” 

“And, looking through the history, this place _ does  _ seem cursed.” Keith starts listing off disaster after disaster: 

Just a few months after the merry-go-round incident, a horse was spooked at the petting zoo, and kicked a man who later died from the head injury. 

Five years later, the funhouse caught fire with several people inside. The walkways were convoluted enough that in their panic, they did not,  _ could not _ , escape.  

In later years, a disaster involved one of the park employees: unaware that the shifts had been changed, he was doing landscaping work under the wooden coaster and gravely injured while the ride was operating with a train full of people. 

A murder that seemed to be unrelated, until it was discovered that the victim was stalked throughout the park prior to her death. That took place in 1991, the year that the park closed its doors for good. 

Before long, it’s obvious that this park is like,  _ mega _ cursed. Like, Lance wants to leave this place  _ yesterday _ . And they’re so far from the city that it is way darker than it should be and there’s nothing else around for miles and--- 

“You okay?” Keith has interrupted himself and is peering at Lance through his messy bangs. He stops walking.  

Lance takes in a shaky breath. “You take me on the worst dates, you know that?” 

Keith laughs, a bright little snort that instantly lifts Lance’s mood. “I do.” 

“Okay, well, as long as you know.” Lance waves a hand. “Go on.” 

“Um. Actually.” Keith shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m done talking for now. I thought we might do a session with the thermal cam in there.” 

Lance follows the nod of Keith’s head with his eyes. “Keith. Fuck you.” 

Keith purses his lips. “Later, if you want,” he promises, breaking into his most devious smile. He ignores Lance’s reaction in favor of walking towards the building they’re about enter. Lance sputters. _ Keith and his jokes.  _

“I don’t think you’re funny!!” Lance shouts after him, before running to catch up. He is  _ not  _ about to be alone out here. 

The Haunted Hotel. 

The fucking  _ Haunted Hotel _ , is what the sign at the beginning of the path says. 

A wrought iron fence, the tips of each spoke deadly sharp, surrounds the lot. The grounds in front of the building are spotted with fake (?) tombstones, old and weathered enough that the writing has worn away. There’s markers at the edge of the queue advising:  _ Stay Out! _ And  _ Beware!  _

It’s a little too on the nose, Lance thinks. Would a ghost really haunt an amusement park’s haunted house? Seems unlikely, but. He sure as fuck doesn’t feel the need to find out. The door to the funhouse has been ripped away from its hinges. He slips inside, behind Keith, flicking his flashlight over the walls of the entry room. Fake cobwebs are mixed with real dust. The plaster of the ceiling is cracked, graffiti covers the walls, and a dummy is perched in one corner. The dummy is horrible---some kind of rudimentary animatronic bellhop meant to endlessly usher guests into the ‘hotel.’ It still smiles now---indefatigable and unnatural---despite the rips and tears to the rest of its body. 

“Isn’t this the funhouse that burned down with people inside,” Lance hisses, keeping his flashlight trained on the figure, although it’s obviously not a real person and not likely to start moving again after all these years. 

“Not all of it. Parts were rebuilt,” Keith summarizes, fiddling with the thermal imaging camera. 

“But the same place?”

Keith thinks for a minute. “Yeah. Pretty much.” 

Lance swears under his breath. “This is bad.” 

Thermal imaging camera in hand, Keith motions to the hallway. “The maze goes through several rooms and then ends in a hall of mirrors before exiting on the south wall, not far from the entrance. I’ll walk through with the thermal cam first, and then you----”

“Nope.” Lance waves his arms as best he can with all the gear. “Nuh uh. Not happening.” At Keith’s expression he continues, voice shrill: “No way you’re leaving me behind with the ugliest dude that the amusement park from hell could conjure up.” He turns to the fake bellhop. “No offense, man.” 

The bellhop smiles back, mouth wide and eyes vacant. Lance edges closer to Keith. 

“We stay together. And I’ll get plenty of nice footage that will mesh so perfectly with the thermal stuff that you’ll be wondering why the  _ fuck _ you thought we should film it any other way.” 

Keith rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright. I’ll take the lead.”  

“After you, dearest.” Lance simpers, shooing him into the hall. He trails close behind. 

In its prime, the Haunted Hotel might have been a little cheesy, but twenty-some years of decay have definitely added a certain ambiance to the place. Grotesque faces leer out at them from gaudy picture frames on the walls. Each winding turn seems to lead them into a darker room. Lance keeps his hands as steady as he can, taking in the various scenes of fake gore and over-the-top spooks. A headless butler. A banquet room full of skeletons. A giant spider, red plastic eyes glinting dangerously in the gleam of Lance’s flashlight. It’s a little much. 

Still, Lance almost loses his shit when he turns the corner and runs headlong into a ghastly, long haired dummy suspended from the ceiling. He swats her tattered dress away from his head, swearing loudly and with much force. 

“Lance.” 

“Shit---Keith, would it kill you to warn a guy, dude, I almost----” 

“Do you see that?” 

Lance swallows, the words dying in his throat. “See what?” He asks, not sure he wants to know. 

“There’s nothing there, but look at the thermal cam.” 

Lance is at Keith’s side in an instant, looking down over Keith’s shoulder at the multi-colored screen in his hands. Sure enough there’s a large blob of blue-bleeding into purple. Much colder than the rest of the room. Lance squeezes Keith’s arm in a vice-like grip. 

“What is it?” Lance says, voice small. “Keith?”

“Hello.” Keith keeps the camera trained on the spot. “My name is Keith. I have a special camera here that can see you. If you can hear me, would you please move?” 

The vaguely person shaped blob stays still over the screen. Lance tears his eyes away from the screen long enough to peer into the corner behind the door, but, like Keith said, nothing is there. 

Except for the fact that the spot  _ does _ move after that. It grows taller, like someone standing up from a crouched position, and hesitates. Lance has his jaw clenched so tightly it aches. He stands stock still. 

“Can you hear me?” Keith repeats. 

The blue area on the screen shifts slightly. Lance sucks in a breath. And then. It crosses in front of them, fading from blue to the green-orange-red that covers the rest of the room. 

“It moved into the next room,” Keith says, all in a rush. “The mirrors---they should be next---I  read that these are the original mirrors from before the fire---c’mon---” 

Without waiting for Lance’s response, Keith is already past him, slipping down the next hallway. 

“Ah!!! Wait---” Lance takes off, but as soon as he enters the next room he runs smack into a mirror. Rubbing at his nose, he watches warily as five images of himself do the same. He takes in his wide-eyed distraught expression, his hair that is now actually tousled instead of the fake-tousled he normally coaxes it into, and his fitted sweatshirt (it reads ‘SAVAGE’ in bold letters across the chest) that’s become covered in dust---he looks like a mess. 

He takes a step backwards and runs into another mirror. “Fuck!” For the time being, he forgoes his normally exquisite camera technique in favor of stumbling around with his arms out in front of him. He makes the mistake of looking down and his vision swims---the floor is a mirror too. 

“Okay, yeah, this is terrifying. Keith?” Lance backs up, feeling disoriented. The mirror behind him is cold, so cold, against his back. “Who the fuck thought----Keith?? Where are you? Who the _ fuck _ thought this was fun???” 

“Lance?” Keith’s voice should sound close. It doesn’t. 

He closes his eyes. The mirrors are grimey and old---rusted around the edges, covered in fingerprints and dirt----they’re creepy, but they’re just mirrors. Probably. Hopefully. “Keith, I’m stuck. Where are you?” 

“Over here!!” Keith sounds a little closer. “I’ll come back that way.” 

Then they’ll both be stuck in the shitty mirror room. “Nah, dude, just stay there, I’m headed out!” Eyes still closed, hands outstretched, Lance makes his way towards the sound of Keith’s voice. He nearly trips over some debris, but he catches himself. His pulse is loud in his ears but he’s almost there. Almost out. Almost. 

“Lance! You okay?” 

His voice is close now. 

Lance opens his eyes. In the mirror in front of him, he sees it: 

A flash of white. 

“What----” Lance’s pupils are dilated huge as he searches the mirror in front of him, there’s nothing there, but it was there, _ it was _ , he turns, stumbling backwards, away from the  _ thing, _

Because he saw it. 

It was big and fast and it doesn’t make any  _ sense _ but he saw it in the garage that day and he saw it just now, the same flash-of-white-thing, and it’s here, _ it’s here _ , what is---

A hand wraps around his wrist and Lance jerks away, crying out. 

“Hey, hey, it’s me, Keith,” Keith’s voice is soothing. He tries again, his familiar hand---strong grip, square nails, lame as hell fingerless gloves, skin dry around his knuckles----the hand that fits perfectly into Lance’s---pulling Lance out of the hall of mirrors into the clear night air. 

Keith runs a hand up Lance’s forearm, the other one resting lightly at his waist. “You okay?” he asks again, looking up into Lance’s eyes, his own face pinched with concern. 

“Y-yeah,” Lance says, half convincing himself as well. He looks back over his shoulder at the exit. Nothing followed them out. 

Of course nothing followed him out. What is he thinking?

“I saw---” Lance shakes his head. He can’t make sense of it, whatever it was. “Dunno.” He laughs. It’s very forced. Keith knows him well enough to tell, but he doesn’t call Lance out on the bluff. “But I totally freaked. I got  _ got _ . Haunted house: one. Lancey Lance: zero.” 

Keith looks unimpressed. “You made it out didn’t you?” He waves dismissively. “Haunted house: zero. Lance: ten million.” 

“Ten million?” Lance raises an eyebrow, “Wow, Keith,” 

“Ten billion.” Keith corrects. He shoves his hands in his pockets, withdrawing from Lance, a little awkward. He motions with his head towards a bench and starts walking that way. “Twenty billion. No. One hundred billion.” 

“Now that’s just silly.” Lance argues just for the sake of it. His racing mind and beating pulse are slowing into something manageable. He feels better already. He swallows. “What the hell kind of scale are you using?” 

“It’s my scale, I decide.” Keith says stubbornly. He must have deemed it time for a break. He sits down on the bench, bag in his lap, flashlight tucked under his chin so he can see to rummage  through it. “Ah!” He pulls out a Kit-Kat bar. King-sized. “Here. Recharge.” 

In true soccer mom-esque fashion, Keith always provides them with a snack. Lance accepts the candy bar and water bottle without much fuss, but only because Keith is too intent on finding the chocolate he brought for himself to argue. He finds the second Kit-Kat and peels back the red wrapper, biting directly into the square. 

Lance gives him a look of utter disbelief, which Keith fails to notice.

“We have some really decent footage already,” Keith says, licking his fingers before poking at the buttons on his camera. “I wanted to do one more EVP session underneath the coaster, at least. If we have time, we could go through here,” he lays the map across Lance’s legs and indicates the route with his pinky finger, “but I don’t know if our weather will hold.” 

Breaking off another piece of chocolate----like a normal, civilized human---Lance munches, looking upwards into the cloudless night sky. “Weather? What are you talking about? It looks fine.” 

The weather is not fine. 

No sooner do they start on the long route to the coaster than a fog begins to creep down the hills surrounding the park. 

It coats the grounds, turning everything at a distance into formless shadows, unrecognizable until they’re nearly upon them. It’s almost like everything else in the world has just...dissolved. Like at any minute they could reach the end of everything, just be overtaken by the all encompassing dark. 

They walk along the winding paths, getting close to the rear of the park where the woods are more dense. They film in a bumper car arena, the floor covered with moss, the masts of the cars stretching upwards into the ruined ceiling. They film the old petting zoo, the cage doors hanging open, rusted into place. They pass a long defunct ferris wheel. More games. Places to eat. The chairs from an ancient ski lift have been torn away from their cables. They lie scattered around the path, grass growing in tufts between the seats. 

Lance tells himself that the feeling of being followed is something that his brain is just conjuring up. That the uncomfortable feeling crawling up the back of his neck is just his imagination. He tells himself that he  _ didn’t  _ see something out of the corner of his eye just now---only for it to fade back into the fog before he can parse it----it was just a trick of the shadows. 

Finally, they reach the once crown jewel of Alto Hills: The Racer. 

Rising out of the fog like some kind of huge serpentine beast, The Racer is a massive wooden coaster. It’s imposing, the criss-crossing beams blacking out the sky as they stretch up almost endlessly. It’s long; the sloping tracks blend with the landscape, taking advantage of the area’s hills and spanning almost the entire length of the park. 

The coaster overwhelms the senses. They get closer and Lance can even smell it: a diesel-y, metallic odor. It reminds him of the amusement parks he visited as a kid, while simultaneously calling to mind the specific sense of spilled blood---each of the numerous joints slotting the wooden beams into place is covered in a dripping layer of rust, like the coaster itself suffered a painful death. 

“This thing is a monster,” Lance whistles, craning his neck to see the top of the largest hill. 

“It ran backwards and forwards,” Keith tells him. “Two sets of cars on two tracks, running side-by-side. Hence ‘The Racer,’” 

“Cool, cool.” Lance comments, eyeing the red and blue cars on the two competing tracks. They’re almost to the gate, where the passengers would have been loaded onto the ride. Some of the timbers have fallen down. They rot in heaps, jagged edges piercing the air, still rising higher than the trees in some places. “And, where, um, where was it that the accident happened?”

Keith consults his map, using the gate as a reference. “This way,” he says, slipping past a chain link fence. It has a weathered sign attached to it, words still legible:  **Hard Hat Area. Danger. Keep Out.**

“Love reading signs and then doing exactly what they say not to do.” Lance mutters. “My favorite.”

“Hmm?” Keith asks, already making his way under the track.

“Nooothing,” Lance says, batting his eyes.

“You are so...” Keith shakes his head. “C’mon. It’s just past this first embankment.” 

The fog is getting thicker. 

Lance listens to the groaning of the wood towering above him as Keith’s voice drifts through the dark. He goes into more detail about the accident before pulling out the EVP recorder. He asks the standard questions, receives no response. The gravel crunches underfoot as they stand silent in the dark, letting the recorder pick up what it may. Lance rubs his hands together to get the feeling back into his fingers. It’s definitely getting colder. 

“Memory card’s full,” Keith notices, holding his camera closer to his face. “Can you grab one of my spares?” Hands full, he motions to his pocket. 

Lance reaches into his jeans pocket, wiggling his fingers. Nothing. 

“Maybe other side?” Keith frowns. 

Lance reaches into the other side. Nope. 

“Maybe the back?” Keith says, innocent. 

Lance slides one hand into Keith’s back pocket. It’s empty. “You,” he says, 

“Must be the other one,” Keith says, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. 

“Must be,” Lance grins, sliding his opposite hand into Keith’s other back pocket. “Hmm…I can’t find it,” he says, giving Keith’s ass a good two-handed squeeze. 

“Strange.” Keith bites his lip, looking up into Lance’s face. 

“Definitely,” Lance breathes over his lips. He kisses Keith open mouthed, pulling him forward. Keith responds, almost urgent in the way that he drinks Lance in, all pliant mouth and teasing teeth and greedy tongue. Lance’s hand travels from his back pocket, tracing up the rough seams of the denim, to underneath Keith’s shirt, holding him close at the small of his back. His fingers edge over the dimples there, thumb running just to the left where he knows Keith has a freckle dotting his otherwise pale skin. 

Whether from the touch or the chill in the air, Keith shivers. 

The tip of Keith’s nose is freezing cold. And so are his cheeks. Reluctantly, Lance pulls away. They should probably stop being distracted and finish filming for the night. He ignores the small noise of protest Keith makes. “Babe,” he starts---

\---the thought leaves him. He stands, rooted the spot, unable to finish. His arms around Keith fall slack. 

“What is it?” Keith asks, twisting around to follow Lance’s gaze. 

Lance has his camera in hand, he raises it to his face, zooming in on the crest of the coaster’s tallest hall. 

Something is standing on top of the coaster. 

It’s tall. 

That much must be true because even though it’s far away, high above them, it’s large enough to see through the viewfinder. At this distance, he can’t make out any details: just its large silhouette, just wiry limbs, just a deathly white  _ something _ scrawled against the night sky. One leg is bent as it braces itself against the wooden beams of the coaster. It’s bending down to watch them. 

Keith wordlessly lifts his camera. 

The thing moves. 

It moves, and it’s so much worse. The long limbs lope down the the coaster’s old track, taking the maintenance stairs two at a time. The wooden beams creak and stutter under its weight but its motion remains fluid. Its sole focus is reaching the spot where Keith and Lance are standing.  

Lance  _ feels  _ rather than sees Keith’s reaction. He pushes Lance backwards, grabs his hand, pulls him into a run, taking off in the opposite direction towards the front of the park. Keith’s breath is choppy and ragged and loud in Lance’s ears. Lance follows him, gripping his hand harder when he stumbles. 

The fog is so thick they can barely see in front of them. 

They can’t see in front of them, so they can’t see behind either. 

The coaster disappears behind them into the fog and Lance has no idea if the thing has reached the ground. He doesn’t know if it follows. He doesn’t know if it’s close behind. He doesn’t----

They reach the front of the park. They pass under the gate. With singular determination, Keith packs up the stationary cameras and the rest of their gear, loading the car. Lance would normally help, but his hands are shaking. They’re shaking so bad that he fumbles with the keys. Keith takes them out of his hands and unlocks the driver’s side door, shoving him inside. Lance keeps his eyes trained on the park, senses on high alert. He’s ready to run at every rustle of leaves, every scrape of litter on concrete. 

When the car doors are shut and they’re both inside, but Lance has yet to turn the key in the ignition, Keith breaks the silence: “I think---” 

Lance jumps at the sound of Keith’s voice. 

“I think,” Keith starts again, swallowing, keeping his voice purposely level. “We’ve gotten enough of Alto Hills.” 

Lance tries a laugh, but it almost sounds hysterical. He starts the car. “Keith. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

The drive to the motel is tense. The radio stays off. Neither of them attempts conversation. Lance is grateful for every mile they put between themselves and Alto Hills. 

The motel room is clean and nondescript. Brown carpet, beige bedspread, little pink flowers on the wallpaper. Blessedly bland, and far removed from the park. Still, the fact that Keith double checks the lock on the door before climbing into bed is not lost on Lance. He’s unsettled too. Lance inhales a deep breath and tries to shoot him an easy smile. He doesn’t know if it’s for himself or for Keith. 

The sun will be rising soon. That’s what he tells himself as he wraps his arms around Keith and closes his eyes. It’s almost morning.

* 

When Lance opens his eyes a few hours later, Keith is already awake. He’s sitting up in the bed next to Lance, peering into his phone screen. Probably texting Shiro, letting him know how the shoot went.

He puts his phone down when he sees Lance stir. “Mornin,’” he says, voice textured coarse from talking all night. The circles under his eyes are a little darker than usual. 

“Ugh,” Lance responds, flopping into Keith’s lap. Limbs still clumsy with sleep, he encircles Keith’s waist, burying his face in Keith’s tummy. 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, running a hand through Lance’s hair. “I slept like shit.”

“What did Shiro say about…” Lance trails off. He doesn’t want to say _ the thing _ . He doesn’t want to verbalize it. 

Keith shrugs. “Said he’s excited to see the video. And to drive safe on the way home.” 

Lance blows a contentious raspberry. Shiro clearly didn’t grasp the intensity of the event. It’s not his fault...Keith is kinda mostly horrible at words. Even worse at texting. “That was some of the freakiest shit I’ve ever seen, dude.” 

That’s putting it mildly. Lance doesn’t want to recall the mind numbing terror that he felt when the thing…when it…when... 

Okay yeah. He’s not going to think about that. Like, at all. It’s over. 

Keith grunts in agreement, his expression thoughtful. “It’ll make a good episode.” 

Lance turns over in his lap, so that his back is on Keith’s legs and he has a wonderfully unflattering view up Keith’s nose. He scoffs. “You could almost die and you’d be like,” Lance switches into a monotone, “This’ll make a good episode.” He waves an accusing finger in Keith’s face. 

“Well if it would…”

“Shut up!” Lance pokes his chest, but it lacks any force. Keith grabs his cheeks and smacks a wet kiss over his puckered lips. Lance’s arms automatically wind behind Keith’s head, pulling himself closer. 

Keith shifts, pressing Lance into the bed, kissing him properly. “You shut up,” he says when he pulls away.  

“Maybe I will!” Lance returns with as much pettiness as he can muster. Keith watches, bemused, as Lance rolls out of bed and promptly stumbles over his own shoes. He kicks his duffle bag open, ready to grab some fresh clothes for the drive home. Necessary toiletries in hand, he proclaims: “Alto Hills, _ Shm _ alto Hills. Let’s make like a banana and split, my guy.” 

Keith snorts. They get ready to leave. 

*

Against his better judgement, Lance takes another sip of his Big Gulp. He really has to pee. 

He sneaks a peek at the gps on his phone, even though this stretch of highway is pretty familiar to him. They’re almost home. 

They only have about an hour left. 

He should just wait to go to the bathroom. It’s not that far. 

(But he  _ reaaally  _ has to go). 

Beside him, Keith’s mouth moves ever so slightly. 

That’s another reason that Lance doesn’t want to stop: Keith has fallen asleep.  

Keith is sleeping. In the car. 

Because of their filming schedule, Keith and Lance have spent a lot of time in the car together. They’ve been on extended road trips. They’ve driven for long, ten, twelve hour stretches. Keith has  _ never _ fallen asleep. 

Lance remembers how difficult it was for Keith to ride in the car the first time together. They knew each other for months before he trusted Lance enough to sit in the passenger seat. And when he did, he was so nervous. Tight-lipped and bitchy and anxious. He remembers how Keith clenched his fists and wouldn’t meet Lance’s eyes and told him shortly about the car accident that took his father.  

Even recently there have been occasions when Keith has told him that he prefers to take his bike on that particular day. His face will get that same strained look. His voice can take on that same broken tone. He tries to hide it, but some days he still relives that horrible memory if the intersection looks a certain way, or if a car honks abruptly, or turns too fast. He gets car sick and bad tempered and quiet. 

He’s a nervous passenger, and a backseat driver, and definitely,  _ definitely _ never falls asleep. 

Until now. Instead of tight, terrified fists, Keith’s hands now are curled gently in his lap. His head is tilted back on the car seat; with his hair swept back, Lance can see the delicate widow’s peak of his hairline and the way his dark lashes fan over his cheeks. He’s drooling a little.

Their relationship has come a long way since that first car trip, Lance thinks. There’s very few people in the world that have seen Keith so unguarded. Heart full-to-bursting, Lance tries to wake him without startling him. “Keith. Babe,” he whispers, keeping his eyes on the road. “We’re almost home.” 

Keith murmurs, closing his slack mouth, but doesn’t wake up. 

Rest Stop: Next Exit. 

Lance winces. Okay. Sorry Keith. He’ll be quick. Keith might not even notice they’ve stopped. 

They didn’t leave the motel ‘til late morning, and with the long drive, it’s almost getting dark again. Lance pulls to a stop under a street light in the parking lot of the rest stop. The light isn’t on...maybe it’s broken? But then again, it’s barely dusk. 

There’s a van on the far side of the lot, and a few semi trucks across the way, but no people around. The squat, brick building sits on an incline above the parking lot. It seems entirely vacant. 

Lance twirls the keys around his fingers, peering through the windshield at a large map pressed under a piece of yellowing plastic on the wall between the men’s and women’s sides. Seems….safe? Kinda? 

Why is he so freaked? It’s just a rest stop. 

“Be right back,” he tells Keith, who is still sound asleep. He takes a deep breath and opens the car door. Making sure it’s locked behind him, he jogs up to the building. 

The inside is cast in a sickly fluorescent glow. The hum from the lights seems abnormally loud; the way they drone deep in his ears is off-putting. The walls are a dirty looking grayish white. Lance takes care not to look too closely at the stalls, but they’re filthy. There’s no mirrors above the sinks. He washes his hands. No soap. 

Rubbing his wet hands on his jeans, he’s happy to be done. He jogs back to the car, keys in hand. Keith is still asleep. Lance breathes a sigh of relief as he locks the doors and the car starts just fine. He backs out of the parking spot, humming softly to himself. Next stop: home. 

He’s about to get back on the highway when he sees it. 

His eyes just happen to flick up to the rearview mirror. A white  _ something _ catches his eye. The car rolls to a stop, his breathing shallow, his hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. His heart is in his throat, his eyes are fixated on the rearview mirror. 

Long, bony fingers, visible against the red-brown bricks, hook around the restroom’s doorframe. The door slowly opens, 

The thing emerges. 

It stands tall enough that it has to duck its head as it passes through the door. 

Lance watches in horror as a pale figure exits the building….the very same restroom he was just using. Its hand drops to its side, but the proportions are all wrong: the hands are too big and the arms are too long; its fingertips reach past its knees. It stands fully upright, bathed in the unnatural glow emanating from the one working streetlight on the other side of the building. Its head turns to his direction. It sees him too.  _ It knows, _ Lance thinks wildly.  _ It knows I’m here.  _

With a lurch, it begins to move. It crosses the grass down into the parking lot. It’s behind the car, maybe fifteen, twenty feet away. It stoops, lowering its head to stare at him through the back window of the car as it moves ever closer. 

“Oh god,” Lance hears himself say, “Oh fuck, ohmygod,” he fumbles the gear shift, the car’s already in drive, what is he doing, he needs to---it’s coming---it’s coming closer----

He slams on the gas. He takes the access road back to the highway too fast. He’s too focused on the thing--- _ it’s watching as Lance drives away _ \---to notice that he almost sideswipes another vehicle as he merges on. The other driver honks at him, he swears, Keith wakes up---

Keith wakes up. He grabs at the seat with a gasp, his feet scuffing against the floor for a moment before he realizes where he is. His breathing is rapid and heaving; he bends forward, one hand on the dashboard to steady himself. He’s got his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Sorry.” Lance feels the prickling of tears at the edge of his eyes. He looks back into the rearview mirror, but a mile has passed since the rest stop. Does it matter? Is the thing still…..? 

“Sorry, Keith--I’m,” he sucks in a deep breath, breathes it out in a stuttering mess. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Keith, I didn’t mean to wake you up like that, shit, but---” 

“Lance.” Keith still has his eyes closed, he’s leaning forward, “Pull over,” 

Switching lanes with as much care as possible, Lance pulls the car to a stop. Keith stumbles out of the passenger side. He throws up, retching close to the ground. Lance tries to help, murmuring something comforting, but Keith waves him away. He coughs, arms wrapped tightly around himself, still kneeling in the dirt. Lance digs out a water bottle from their bags and hands it to him. Keith doesn’t look at him when he takes it, rising to his feet. He spits some of the water onto the ground, drags the back of his hand across his mouth before speaking. His voice is hoarse, “What the fuck is wrong with you.” 

Lance shakes his head. He can’t. “Keith---I saw---”

“---home. How much longer do we have?” Keith cuts him off, sharp and quiet. His eyes are red-rimmed and still avoiding Lance’s. 

“About thirty-five minutes.” Lance says, miserable, starting the car again. They drive in silence for a few minutes, scenery becoming increasingly familiar as they near their apartment. “Keith,” Lance says. His own fear abated, he feels like a jerk. He shouldn’t have----Keith is---but if he would just _ listen _ \--- 

“I really am sorry.” He keeps his eyes on the road, taking their exit. Keith turns to him, silent as Lance starts to ramble: “I stopped to pee and jesus---fuck it was so creepy and I got really freaked and---” 

Keith mutters something under his breath, turning back towards the window. He sits up straighter in the seat. He’s angry. He runs a hand through his hair and Lance can see the tremor in his fingers. He knits his hands together tightly. His shoulders are tight. “You don’t have to apologize. Just wake me up if I start to drift off again,” 

“Will do.” Lance promises. Keith gives him a stiff nod. He does not fall back asleep. 

*

When they get back home, the atmosphere is still tense. Lance feels jittery as he flips the light switch and dumps their duffle bags on the floor. 

Their couch with too many throw pillows and a bunch of fuzzy blankets. The house plant they collectively gave up on keeping alive. The coffee table that the cats have turned into a scratching post. A pile of mail on the counter that they’ll eventually open...eventually. Everything is as they left it. Everything is “right.” Nothing out of place.

Keith feeds the cats. Brushes his teeth. Lance tries talking to him again, a gentle “hey man,” but Keith brushes him off, unpacking their things silently. Lance gives him space, hopes that’s the right thing to do. He sprawls out on the couch, texting his mom, then Hunk that they’re home. He scrolls through twitter, insta, avoids fb like the plague…..but. He keeps getting distracted. He keeps looking around the apartment. Everything is in its place, but Lance is still---something about their apartment still feels  _ off. _

Keith clears his throat. “You---” 

Lance jumps, nearly dropping his phone. “I’m cool!” he says shrilly, denying his unease before Keith can even comment on it. “Peachy! Nothing to report, captain!” 

Keith gives him a look like,  _ what the hell are you talking about? _

Lance shoots him a couple of finger guns like,  _ you know me, just typical loveable Lance antics. _

Slouching onto the couch’s armrest, arms crossed, Keith begins again: “You wanna get food?” 

He must be feeling a little bit better. Thank fuck. Lance sits up on the sofa and waggles his brows. “I could be persuaded to eat. What did you have in mind?” 

Keith slides across the couch, climbing into Lance’s lap. He’s an actions-more-than-words kind of guy, and Lance suspects this is his way of saying  _ ‘sorry I lost it in the car earlier’  _ and ‘ _ I’m okay now _ ’ and  _ ‘you are forgiven.’ _ He tucks his face next to Lance’s, his cheek resting on Lance’s shoulder. He breathes in deep. Lance smiles. _ Message received loud and clear, captain. _ Lance kisses against his temple, tucking a bit of hair behind his ear. This position isn’t perhaps the most suitable for making decisions, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

“Okay, so whatcha thinkin’? Indian? Thai? What about that place with the weird sandwiches? Or we could just order a pizza if you don’t feel like going out?” Despite his hands being behind Keith’s back, he still talks with them, listing out the options with grand gestures. 

“Mmm,” Keith snuggles closer, thinking. He decides. “I know a place.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Keith sits up and kisses Lance, a chaste kiss square on his mouth. He gets up, grabbing his riding gloves off the table. “But I’m driving.” 

* 

Lance wiggles. Seat’s not too comfy. And it’s going to be loud, super loud. Even wearing this bulky helmet. 

Keith walks the bike out of the garage and Lance latches onto him like his life depends on it.  He can feel Keith’s response in a soft chuckle that ripples underneath his arms. So, he’s a little nervous, okay? 

“You good?” Keith asks him, tilting his head back. 

“I feel the need, the need for speed!!” Lance shouts. Keith rolls his eyes, but the corner of his lips tug---he’s halfway to a smile. 

Keith waits for a moment to let Lance get adjusted, nice and snug behind him. “That’s good, okay, rest your feet there….perfect.” 

Lance swallows his nerves and gives a solid affirmation, smacking a hand on Keith’s thigh, “C’mon, slowpoke, let’s get going!” Keith shakes his head, lips pursed into a quiet smile. There it is. Finally. Lance rubs sweaty palms against his own jeans----he’s not used to being the one riding passenger. He feels a bit delirious as the motorcycle’s engine roars to life beneath them. And then, they’re off. 

Keith is warm despite the cold fall air.  His deceptively lithe body becomes a solid anchor, shifting slightly under Lance as he leans into turns or adjusts their speed. Lance knows him well enough to read his movements, and he takes comfort in every tick: the way he taps his fingers against the clutch, or squeezes Lance’s knee when they’re stopped at a light, or tilts his head just so. Even like this, in front of him on a motorcycle, Keith is just so...Keith. Lance holds him tight. The world rushes by---the streets are familiar but surrounded by the noise of the bike and the feeling of Keith, it’s like, the world has narrowed to just this. Just them. Lance closes his eyes against Keith’s back and breathes in the moment. 

_ Over already, _ he thinks, dazed, as Keith pulls up expertly in a parking spot and kills the engine. The thrum seems to continue through Lance’s pulse.

“You can let go now,” Keith tugs off his helmet, patting Lance’s hands that remain clasped around his midsection.

Lance tightens his hold. “Nope. I’m good.” 

“Was it that bad?” Keith asks. His hair is flat from the helmet, which shouldn’t be cute, but, then again. It’s Keith. “Sorry. I, uh,  tried to make it a smooth ride, since you’re not, y’know, used to it.”

“I didn’t want it to end.” Lance says, sincere. 

“Oh.” Keith looks down like he doesn’t know what to do with this information. “That’s. Good.” His mouth works at keeping a smile under wraps and his face tilts forward as he ducks his head, his eyes fluttering to avoid Lance’s gaze. He pats Lance’s hands a second time, but this time his touch lingers. Lance feels him relax against his chest. 

“Oh, right! Food!” Keith remembers a moment later, sitting back up. He clears his throat. “Uh.”

Lance snorts, finally untangling himself from around Keith’s waist and tugging off his own helmet. He somehow makes it off the bike, stumbling into a hop on one leg until he regains his balance. 

Keith dismounts much more gracefully. Helmet tucked under one arm, he crosses the parking lot into the diner. 

The Hasty Tasty is never too crowded, but at this time of night, it’s almost deserted. Just the  last few stragglers finishing up after the dinnertime ‘rush.’ Keith snags his favorite booth near the back corner. Lance joins him, slumping back into the worn, brown leather of the booth. They’ve come here at all hours of the day and night, after ghosts and ghouls and all manner of other spooks. This booth is nearly as familiar to him as their couch at home by this point. 

“Working the evening shift today, Rachel? Don’t you ever take a day off?” Lance asks as the waitress approaches. The ice clacks merrily in the glasses as she sets down a couple of waters. 

“Somebody’s gotta pay the bills, sweetie.” Rachel says. She really does look tired, lipstick worn off and concealer cakey under her eyes. Her expression is still warm, though. “You boys need a minute to decide?” 

Lance motions her closer. He whispers, one hand shielding his mouth: “Hey, who’s in the kitchen today?” Lotty, the diner’s owner, works the morning shifts, so at night you can never be too sure...

“Lance.” Keith says, already exasperated. 

Lance ignores him. There’s a window over the front counter that gives him a view into the kitchen area. Lance sits up on one leg and cranes his neck over the wooden table dividers, giving the kitchen a narrowed eye look, trying to see if the person in question is working. 

“Sal and Ricky are on tonight ‘til midnight. You’re good.” She gives him the ‘OK’ sign. 

“Rachel, can you not indulge his bizarre vendetta against the poor frycook,” Keith says with a huff. She laughs. 

Lance pouts while she goes to put in their order. “A man needs to know these things!!” 

“Slav is not going to poison you. He’s just a normal guy!!” 

Lance sputters and grabs his phone:

**To Shiro:** Keith just called Slav “normal”

Keith’s phone immediately lights up. Lance turns it over, to read the new text:  

**From Shiro** : you’re insane 

Lance sits back, spreads his hands in a satisfied gesture, like,  _ there you have it.  _

Grumbling, Keith picks up his phone to text Shiro back. “Just because you got sick that  _ one  _ time, Lance,”

“I almost died!!” 

“You did not.” Keith says, finishing his text and setting his phone back down. “And I think we can blame it more on the---”

“The _ same _ thing I get  _ every _ time! But who was cooking that night? Slav!! The man is a menace! Who knows how high his body count is!”  

Rachel brings out their order. Lance digs into his chili cheese fries with gusto, half to annoy Keith who is still muttering under his breath about Slav and half because he really is hungry. 

“Honey, are you feeding this boy enough?” Rachel teases Keith. She grabs a ketchup bottle from the table behind them and sets it next to Keith. He frowns as he opens it and dumps some on his cheeseburger. 

“I feed him. He’s just---” Keith waves a hand, indicating Lance’s general Lance-ness, “like this.” 

“And you love me,” Lance beams, reaching across the table to steal one of Keith’s non-cheesy fries. He narrowly avoids being stabbed by Keith’s fork.

They finish the meal, the long drive catching up with them as the diner food sits heavy in their stomachs. Lance feels his eyelids becoming heavier and heavier. Keith has his notebook out, planning the editing for the video around Lance’s work schedule. He’ll do most of the voiceover parts while Lance is at work, and the video should be ready to upload by Halloween eve. 

Lance yawns. 

“Past your bedtime, sweetie?” Rachel asks, refilling his water and picking up their check. 

“Mhmm.” Lance agrees. “Hope you’re off soon too...that’s your little guy near the kitchen isn’t it?”

Rachel nods. Her son, Stevie, is slumped over the front counter, pencil still in hand. He’s been working on his homework. “He works so hard,” she tells Keith and Lance proudly. “He’s got straight A’s this semester...don’t know where he gets all those smarts from.”

“His mom, obviously,” Lance smiles. 

She shakes her head. 

Keith slides out of the booth. “Be right back,” he says, holding up two fingers, miming holding a cigarette. 

“Mind if I say hi?” Lance asks Rachel, now that the check is paid. 

“Of course not. Stevie loves you.” She shoo’s Lance out of the booth. 

Lance gives her a wave goodbye. Stevie really is a good kid. He reminds Lance of his cousin Robbie, although Robbie is only in grade school. Still, the last time Lance talked to Stevie, he was working on his Spanish homework, and the familiar pang of homesickness was strong in Lance’s chest. 

Stevie started high school this year, but thanks to his round baby-face, he looks younger than that. He’s got a few papers spread out over the restaurant’s bar and is looking at them with such an air of despondency, Lance can’t help but feel bad for the kid. Lance slides onto the stool next to him. “Stevie!  _ ¿Qué bola?” _

Stevie’s tiny shoulders slump like the whole world is on resting on them.  Lance tries again: “ _ ¿Cómo estás?”  _

Stevie puffs out his cheeks, making his face look even more round. “Not….bueno.” 

“Yikes.” 

“Yeah...” Stevies shuffles the worksheets underneath his notes. “In class today it seemed easy, but now that I’m doing the homework, I have no clue.” He frowns at the paper dramatically.  

“Lemme take a look,” Lance scoots closer, looking at the worksheet. Spanish again.  _ Change the following verbs from the present to the present progressive: 1. El hombre busca su asiento. 2... _

Stevie wrinkles his nose. “It’s probably super easy for you.” 

Lance shrugs. “Dude, I sucked at school. Most of the time I had to work twice as hard as everybody else just to keep up.”

That’s definitely not the case for Stevie. According to his mom, the kid’s a little nerd. Just last month, Rachel was bragging that he’s the only freshman on the school’s academic decathlon team. Spanish I might be the first time he’s struggled with any class. 

“I think I’m just not meant to speak anything other than English.” Stevie decides. 

“Nah” Lance puts down the paper. “Just stick with it and in a few years you and me will chat in  _ español _ like it’s nothing.”

“Years?!” Stevie sighs. 

“Hey! Some things are worth the effort!” Lance wiggles his fingers for Stevie to hand him a pencil. He jots down some examples on a scrap piece of paper. After a couple of minutes, things click for Stevie and he’s able to finish up his worksheet, easy peasy. 

Homework finished, Stevie’s in a much brighter mood. He tells Lance about he and his friend’s latest campaign (which Lance doesn’t really understand but as long as they have fun, cool), which then devolves into a complicated explanation of their halloween costumes.

Lance listens to his enthusiastic chatter, and responds in kind. It’s not long, however, before his eyes are trained on the window, watching Keith. 

Molli, another waitress---closer to their age than Rachel, and today sporting neon orange hair---seems to have joined Keith on her smoke break. She’s giggling, her smile wide as she tells him a story, holding out her phone. 

Keith grins. He brings the cigarette to his mouth, takes a drag, then takes it out with his opposite hand, shaking his head. He exhales the smoke and laughs in disbelief at whatever she’s showing him. Lance smiles. Keith looks comfortable and sated and vibrant. He’s gorgeous. There’s no trace of the panic he experienced earlier in the car. Thank fuck. Lance never wants to see him upset like that again. And especially not because of something he did. 

“Stevie, next time I’m in here, you’re gonna give me a crash course on present progressive.” Lance tells him, with great seriousness. 

“Yeah right,” Stevie scoffs. “Thanks for helping me though,” 

“No prob,” Lance says, sliding off the stool. “I gotta split, but take care of your mom, alright? See you in like, a week, probably.” 

“I will.” Stevie waves. “Be careful with the ghosts.” 

“Hey!” Lance shouts across the diner, walking backwards towards the door. “Don’t watch my videos!!” He squints his eyes, conceding, “Well, okay, you can watch them, but promise you won’t start swearing because of me! Pinky promise!!” He waves his pinky around. 

Stevie rolls his eyes. “Obviously!” 

Lance finds Keith outside. “Hey babe,” 

Keith stamps out the cigarette, entwining their hands together.  “Hey.” His gaze is soft as he looks up into Lance’s face. “You ready to go?” 

“Yeah,” Lance pulls Keith’s hand up as he stretches his arms above his head. “I’m exhausted.” 

Keith shakes his hand out of Lance’s grip. His arms aren’t nearly as long and he looks ridiculous. Molli snorts. “Shut it, Molls,” Keith warns her as they make their way to the bike. She gives him the middle finger and Keith laughs. Lance gives her a little wave, but it’s cut short as Keith revs out of the parking lot back into the street. 

With his arms once more wrapped around Keith’s waist, they head home. 

_ Some things are worth the effort.  _

While it’s true that dating Keith wasn’t as easy as just asking him out, every minute of getting to know him was exciting. Lance wouldn’t change a thing---from drinks at The Blade to the fucking Milford Estate. 

But there are occasions where Keith still holds back. Like he still doesn’t quite believe that he can trust Lance or rely on him. Earlier in the car, Lance was at a loss for how to help. And Keith just...shuts him out. Keith’s always been a private person, and Lance understands that, but. It can be frustrating. Especially since he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. They’re different that way. 

Lance hopes that Keith is as happy with him as he is with Keith. Sometimes it seems unlikely. 

He doesn’t register the blur of white standing on the edge of the road as anything in particular. 

*

 

The following day, Lance’s is on his way home when he discovers that there’s glue in his hair. 

 

Lance huffs. He’s typically a positive guy who doesn’t mind his job, but today work at the craft store was a pain in the ass. One obnoxious customer after another: a lady with expired coupons who wouldn’t stop yelling at him, another psychopath threatening to call corporate over a two person line at the register, another person irate that a goddamn scrapbooking supply wasn’t in stock. 

 

Maureen, his coworker, was pissy that it’s only October but she’s already been setting up the Christmas displays. Like the mass market capitalist agenda of the ever more encroaching holiday season is his fault!  _ And _ there was a call-off so Lance was absolutely swamped with shit that needed to get done and no one to help him.  _ Plus  _ one of the kids in the crafting class was sick and sneezed all over him. Thanks a lot, Isabella. Gross.

 

And. Somehow. There’s glue in his hair. 

 

Lance pulls into the garage, happy to be home at least. At least. 

 

Keith isn’t home yet. He’s probably holed up in the library, headphones on, brow furrowed as he sips at the Monster energy drink he smuggled in, and watches the same clip a bazillion times. It takes him ages to edit all of the footage into a twenty minute episode. Lance will definitely give him a hand with it tonight when Keith comes home. They’re partners; Keith doesn’t have to do all the work alone. 

 

“Girls~!” Lance calls out to the cats as he steps in the door, “Lancey Lance is home~!” Black gives him a disapproving look from her cat tree and goes back to snoozing. Lance sticks his tongue out at her. Whatever. At least Red loves him. She circles around his feet, meowing for dinner. He tosses his keys on the counter, then wrinkles his nose. Ugh. The trash needs to be taken out. Sigh, might as well do that now.  

 

“Be right back, Red Rover,” Lance tells the cat, gathering up the bag. He toes on his shoes at the door, not bothering to tie the laces, and makes his way across the apartment complex’s parking lot to the dumpster. 

 

It’s late afternoon but the sun is hiding behind the clouds. Seems darker than it should be. One of those gray, fall-turning-into-winter kind of days. After dropping off the trash, Lance claps his hands together, before tucking them under his armpits. It’s gotten cold. Seems….quieter than it should be. There’s a prickly feeling at the back of his neck. He stops to listen for a moment. Nothing. He turns. Nothing is there, but he feels like he’s being watched. His eyes scan the windows of the neighboring units. Nothing unusual. Their apartment is on the first floor and it’s not a long walk, but he jogs the rest of the way. “I’m just tired,” he tells Red as he shuts the door behind him. He’s being paranoid. 

 

He washes his hands at the kitchen sink. There’s a window above the sink. He looks out into the apartment complex’s shared courtyard, zoning out as he rinses off the suds. 

 

He blinks. There’s someone---some _ thing _ \---sitting on the stairs leading into the neighboring building. His hands stop. His breath catches in his chest. 

 

It stands. 

 

It stands and Lance feels that same prickly feeling, only this time it’s not just the back of his neck, it’s his whole body, he’s terrified---

 

It’s here. 

 

Lance backs away from the window. The water is still running in the sink. The thing tilts its head, tracking his movement. “Fuck,” Lance breathes, “fuck,” 

 

It’s staring right at him. Deep, sunken in eyes. Pale, gaunt face. Its jaw unhinges and it gapes at him, a manic facsimile of a smile. It’s focused on him, a sinister and unwavering fixation so distinctly malevolent that it’s almost palpable. Lance can taste it in the back of his throat as hysterics threaten. He doesn’t blink. 

 

Pale-as-death skin is stretched taut across its tall frame. Its haggard shoulders protrude as it swings its long arms, crossing the courtyard, moving closer to the window. Its gait is choppy, but it’s coming. Closer. And closer. Lance backs away from the window. His heels catch on the kitchen’s linoleum floor. He almost falls. 

 

It reaches the window. Draws its face in near, near enough that its breath fogs up the glass. It raises one large hand as if to break in. Lance’s back is to the opposite wall. He feels pinned with fear. He whimpers...

 

The key turns in the lock. 

 

Lance’s eyes dart to the entryway, just for a split second. When they return to the window, the thing is gone. Gone? Where? Where is it….? His hands scramble for purchase against the wall as his legs give out. 

 

“Lance?” Keith calls out. He enters the kitchen, turning off the water before he sees Lance. 

 

“Down here, boss man,” Lance manages. 

 

“Lance!!” Keith is immediately at his side, helping him up. “What are you---are you hurt---you’re---you’re shaking. What happened?”

 

“Oh you know, just enjoying our kitchen from a different angle.” Lance tries to joke. It comes out more like a babble, “A ch-change in perspective can really---”

 

Keith is not amused. Lance is still tucked close against his chest; he wonders if Keith can feel how fast his heart is racing. A distant car door slams and Lance jolts. Keith tightens his grip, “What. Happened.” 

 

“We have to go.” Lance tells him, trying to wiggle out of his arms. Keith is too strong. Lance feels unhinged. His first instinct is escape---they need to leave. Anywhere but here. 

 

But. It’s outside. 

 

And also….this is their home. And it followed him here. What’s to say it wouldn’t follow---

 

“It’s here.” Lance tries to swallow. He shakes his head, tries again, “It---it was here.” 

 

“What was?” 

 

Lance pulls away, eyes hovering over the window. He doesn’t want to get too close, but. The courtyard is empty. The sky seems less gray. “The…” he raises one hand above his head, indicating height. 

 

“Huh?” Keith doesn’t get it. 

 

Lance rolls his eyes. “You know? The big, creepy thing that almost killed us at Alto Hills? Real ugly? Kinda tall? Fuck Keith, have you been following along at all?” 

 

Keith makes a face at him, one that says,  _ you’re out of your mind, you’ve officially lost your marbles, _ which does not seem like a very nice thing to say to a person who has been recently traumatized in his own kitchen. “Are you sure it was the same thing?” 

 

“Gee, Keith, I wonder? I mean, I sure have been stalked by a lot of terrifying, spectral beings, so, yanno,  it’s tough to say,” Lance snarks. “”Of course it was the same thing, you jerk! What else would it be!!!” 

 

Keith nods. “Fair enough.” He moves as if to leave. 

 

Now instead of pulling away, Lance clings to him. “Wait---” his voice is pitchy, he coughs, relaxes his hold. “Wait. Keith. Where are you going?” 

 

“To get my camera.” Keith states, as if this is the obvious, sane thing to do. 

 

“Noooo, nope, nuh-uh, not gonna happen.” Lance waves his arms around. “Earth to Keith! Hello! I just came face-to-face with this motherfucker and I don’t need an encore!!” 

 

“Yeah, but.” 

 

“No buts!!”

 

“Lance.” Keith levels with him. “If this…” He pauses over the noun, “... _ creature  _ really is out in the yard, we can’t just,” he motions vaguely, “leave it out there.” He shrugs. “I’ll just go take a look. Real quick. You can stay here,” 

 

“Augh!!” Lance scrubs his hands through his hair. “How many times do I have to tell you?! No. Splitting. Up. We are a team!!!” 

 

“Okay.” Keith is satisfied with this. “So, c’mon, get your stuff.” 

 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Lance grumbles, five minutes later, out in the courtyard. 

 

Honestly, now that he’s out here, Lance concedes that there’s nothing even remotely creepy about this. Just a patch of grass between the apartment buildings. Some well kept flower beds next to the sidewalk. A swingset down the way, almost brand new, with a happy, yellow colored plastic slide. 

 

“There has been a recent report of a paranormal entity in this area,” Keith narrates to his camera, for context. He’s examining a bush near where the thing was sitting. 

 

One of their neighbors, a cute blonde girl walking a big dog, gives them a strange look as she passes by. Keith doesn’t notice her. Lance tries to give her a not-weird smile like,  _ ahaha, nothing to see here, just a couple of normal guys doing normal things. _ It might come off as a little strained. 

 

“Keith,” he hisses. 

 

“Huh?” 

 

“Kristen thinks we’re insane. There’s nothing out here. It’s cold. Let’s go back inside.” 

 

“Kristen?” Keith looks around. “Who?” 

 

“You know, the girl who lives in the unit across the way? Blonde hair? We met her at the community pool party last July?” 

 

Keith gives him a blank look. 

 

“She has a german shepherd mix?” 

 

Understanding dawns. “Oh yeah. What about her?” 

 

Lance presses a hand to his forehead. He changes his tactic. “Do you think we’re going to find anything?” 

 

“I believe you,” Keith says, solemn. 

 

Of course he does. Keith is good and sweet and loves nothing more than catching horrifying things on camera. Of course he believes Lance. But at this point, Lance barely believes himself. He was terrified in the kitchen, but there’s clearly nothing out here. Maybe he  _ is _ insane? “I know you do, babe.” He scratches his cheek. “But I don’t know if we’re really going to accomplish anything with this.” 

 

Keith nods. “Let’s just take a walk around the perimeter to be sure. And then we’ll go back inside.” 

 

As expected, there’s no evidence of a terrifying nightmare creature on the other side of the apartment building either. 

 

They get back inside and Lance all but collapses on the sofa. The long day at work combined with the unexplainable horror in the kitchen, then followed by traipsing around the yard for an hour has him worn out. He’s too old for this shit. 

 

Keith insists on making him a cup of hot chocolate. He brings it to Lance in Lance’s favorite mug, the one with the little blue stars on it. Lance sips, then privately wrinkles his nose as soon as Keith has his back turned. He doesn’t want Keith to know that the milk tastes burned. 

 

Keith goes back to editing the footage after they finish dinner. He has his headphones on and he’s leaning close to the screen, silently mouthing along with the video. 

 

Lance comes up behind him, sweeps his bangs out of his eyes. He lightly taps over Keith’s forehead with his fingertips until Keith pauses in his work. 

 

Keith pulls the headphones off one ear. “Hmm?”

 

“Going to bed,” Lance tells him. He slumps down, now resting his chin on the top of Keith’s head and dangling his arms into Keith’s lap. “Sorry m’not helpin.’”

 

“You’ll help later,” Keith tells him, reaching up to pat his head. “Go sleep. I’ll be finishing soon.” He tilts his head back to give Lance a goodnight kiss. It’s not very well coordinated. 

 

Lance completes the super-ultra lazy version of his nighttime skincare routine before snuggling into bed. He pulls the sleep mask over his eyes, rolls over to the middle of the bed, momentarily enjoying having the whole thing to himself. 

 

It’s not long before he drifts off. 

 

….

 

....the sound of breathing. 

 

Keith? 

 

Still half asleep, Lance’s eyes flutter under his sleep mask. The breathing behind him is heavy. With each labored inhale, there’s a sick, rattling sound. 

 

“Babe? You okay?” Lance rouses from sleep. 

 

The breathing pauses for a moment. The distinct, wet sound of a jaw being opened, closed, swallowing. 

 

That’s...not Keith. 

 

That’s not Keith at all. 

 

The bed dips as a heavy weight settles behind him. He feels hot breath over his shoulder. A rancid smell, like rotting flesh. 

 

“Keith…” Lance tries to call. It comes out as more of a whisper. His hands clench in the sheets. 

 

He has an idea of what might be behind him. He hopes he’s wrong. 

 

He opens his eyes. There’s a mirror on the closet door to his left. 

 

He sees it behind him. Its emaciated, towering form, bent over his body. Its maw opens, and it  _ leers _ at his reflection, watching Lance’s face at it draws nearer. 

 

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Lance attempts to move, but it’s like wading through syrup. He feels paralyzed. 

 

The sound it’s making is horrible: grating and soulless. Lance flinches at the noise and it repeats, louder, more raucous. Its...laughing at him? 

 

“You son of a---” 

 

It lunges, faster than he can understand. Lance feels himself lifted off the bed, one huge hand wrapped around his arm. He twists, trying to break free, shouting---

 

Keith rushes into the room, “Lance?” He chokes when he sees the creature, all the blood draining out of his face, horrified. 

 

“Keith!” 

 

Keith thinks fast, jumping into action before another moment passes. He rushes at the thing, hiking one foot up on the bed and launching himself forward, without regard for his own safety as he tries to tear Lance from its grasp. 

 

Lance is shouting profanities, as he thrashes, desperate to escape. Its hold on him is vice-like, and burning. The thing may be gangly, but it is far from frail. 

 

He finally rips out of its grasp, falling to the floor in a heap with Keith. It screams in displeasure, hands scratching at the ceiling. It is unable to draw itself up to its full height in their small apartment bedroom. 

 

Lance scrabbles to his feet, dragging Keith up with him. The stumble out of the room, pulling the door shut behind them. Lance keeps a firm grasp on the handle, holding it shut. 

 

“How?” Keith gasps, “How could it follow us all the way from the park?” 

 

“It’s not from the park.” Lance whispers. “I saw it before that.” 

 

“What?” 

 

_ Bang! _

 

There’s a clatter and Lance flinches, tightening his grip on the door handle. It sounds as though the thing is throwing itself against the walls, upturning the furniture in their room. 

 

Lance meets Keith’s eyes. 

 

“I maybe sorta kinda saw it the day we broughthometheouijaboard.” 

 

“What?!” 

 

Lance squints at Keith, a little sheepish. “Guess you were right about the board being bad news?” he tries, lifting his shoulders in apology. 

 

“Lance---” Keith draws in a breath. “Where is the ouija board now?” 

 

“I stashed it in the second bedroom after you put it back on the table.” Lance says. 

 

“I never---” The door shudders as the creature slams into it. Keith grabs the handle to hold the door shut along with Lance.  “We need to get back to that board.” 

 

Lance nods. Okay. Alright. If that’s what Keith thinks, then that’s what they’ll do. “On my count,” he says. “Let go, and run like crazy. We’ll lock the other door behind us and then do whatever we have to do to get rid of this shithead.” 

 

Keith grins. “That’s one hell of a plan.” 

 

“Hey! I’m not the brains of this operation, buddy! I’m just the cameraman!” 

 

Despite everything, Keith snorts out a laugh. “Okay,” he says, visibly steeling himself. “You say when.”

 

“One,” 

 

The room goes silent. 

 

“Two,” 

 

Lance swallows. 

 

“Three!!!” 

 

With a shout, they both let go of the door and scramble backwards, running towards the next room over. 

 

The thing is in the hallway in an instant, clawing through the doorway after them. It’s too fast. They’re not going to make it----

 

Keith shouts; the thing’s long fingers graze his ankle as it lunges. Lance cries out---he can’t reach Keith to help---

 

Black, Keith’s cat, is at his side. Hackles raised, she hisses and spits, swatting at the creature with her tiny paw. It draws back, momentarily startled. Red joins her, yowling and angry. 

 

“Good girls!” Lance scoops Black up one handed, the other one tugging Keith into the room after him. Keith has Red nestled to his chest. 

 

They lock the door, falling against it, panting heavily. 

 

Lance lets the cat drop to the floor. He sinks to the floor, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

 

“Lance.” 

 

Lance follows Keith’s gaze. 

 

The board is out. 

 

It rests in the middle of the floor at their feet. The black letters almost gleam in the dark. The planchette rests squarely in the center, still wicked sharp. 

 

“Keith,” Lance sta----

 

_ Crash _

 

“Whatever we’re going to do, we better do it fast,” 

 

Keith nods. They sink to their knees, the board in between them. 

 

The room seems to grow darker. 

 

They can hear the thing pacing in the hall outside the door. 

 

“We didn’t---” Keith swallows. His voice is strained. He wets his lips, starting over. “Before, we didn’t end the session.” 

 

The darkness is cloying; it settles over them heavy and thick, deep enough to drown in. Makes Lance feel like he can’t even breathe. 

 

“ _ That’s _ your big plan?” Lance asks incredulous, as Keith moves to touch the pointer. “Just telling the thing goodbye?”

 

Untouched, the pointer begins to move slowly across the board, dragging itself from letter to letter. 

 

R

 

E

 

S

 

O

 

L

 

C

 

Lance giggles hysterically, “Oh yeah, this thing clearly wants to eat us for dinner, but, no worries, we’ll just  _ end the session _ and everything’ll be fine!!!!” 

 

“Well if you have a better idea, Lance, now’s the time to share it!!” Keith counters. He has his lighter in his hands. He fumbles it, failing to light it, once, twice, before the tiny flame casts a small circle over the board. The light casts shadows over his face, contorting his beautiful, sharp features into something almost sinister. He’s frightened too, Lance realizes, Keith is, 

 

The thing scratches at the door, long fingers scraping down. 

 

“Yep, nope, nothing to add, works for me, let’s do this, bossman,” Lance says, placing a hand on the pointer. 

 

Keith joins him, one hand on the planchette, the other holding his lighter out towards the door. 

 

“We opened this gateway,” Keith begins. His voice is clear as he addresses the dark. 

 

The pointer increases its pace, moving madly under their fingers across the board: 

 

R E S O L C R E S O L C R E S O L C R E S O L C R E S O L C R E S O L C 

 

**_R E S O L C R E S O L C R E S O L C R E S O L C R E S O L C R E S O L C_ **

 

“Oh shit, oh fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Lance closes his eyes,

 

“Lance.” Keith looks at him across the board. “I need you with me.” 

 

He meets Keith’s eyes. 

 

Keith bites his lip. “Okay?” 

 

Lance nods. “We invited you here,” he repeats after Keith, adding, “You sick, shitty piece of----” 

 

The pointer slows. 

 

Keith continues. “We opened this gateway and now we are closing it.” 

 

“Damn right, we are,” 

 

“We do not want you in our home,” 

 

Long fingers wrap under the doorframe, shaking it, as if to tear it off the hinges completely. 

 

“We will no longer allow you to follow us,” 

 

“Or glare at us for no goddamn reason, or creep on us in our beds!!!” 

 

Keith nods, “And, we are closing this gateway,” 

 

The bookshelves rattle, knocking their contents to the floor. The backdrop that Keith films outros against for his videos rips in half, a horrible gut wrenching sound that screams throughout the apartment. 

 

A spot of blood drips onto the board. One. Then another. Then a third. Lance slowly registers something warm running down his lip. His nose is bleeding. 

 

“We are closing this gateway,” Lance repeats, “and you can get the fuck out.” 

 

The pointer comes to a stop. Lance meets Keith’s eyes over the board. 

 

Silence from the hall. The hands have disappeared from under the door. 

 

Lance heaves out a breath. The planchette twitches under their hands. It slowly inches down the board, twisting until it rests clearly on the bottom words: GOOD BYE. 

 

Keith blinks. He cautiously removes his hand from the pointer and Lance does the same. Keith releases his death grip on his lighter; it clatters to the floor.

 

“Ohmygod,” Lance whispers, collapsing backwards gracelessly. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, oh. My. Gooooooood.” He flops his limbs around, until he’s laying on his back, staring upwards. He opens his mouth, then closes it in disbelief. The room doesn’t seem as dark anymore. “Did that really just happen?”

 

“I think it did.” Keith says slowly, crawling over to join him. He drops down to Lance’s side just as careless. “It probably did.” 

 

“Do you think it’ll come back?” 

 

Keith shrugs; his shoulders brushing Lance’s. They lay there for a while, listening to the familiar quiet. 

 

“It better not,” Lance says, resolutely. 

 

“So, no more ouija board sessions?” Keith asks, innocent.  

 

“Uh. No.” Lance looks over and catches Keith’s smirk. “I learned my lesson, thank you very much.” 

 

“You were right though,” Keith turns over on his side, resting his head on one elbow. “We should have filmed it.” 

 

Lance flicks him in the nose. “ _ We should have filmed it, _ shut up, Keith.” 

 

Keith laughs, quiet. His eyes crinkle as he smiles at Lance. “What?” 

 

“You know!” 

 

“I really don’t,” he says, pulling Lance closer to him. 

 

“Babe, one of these days, I’m going to get you back for---” 

 

Keith cuts Lance off with a kiss. Slow and sweet and tender. “Doubt it,” he says, when they part. 

 

*

 

Later, when all has been settled for some time, they get up. The board is put away, back in its box for now. Everything seems calm. 

 

“You ready?” Keith asks him, before opening the door. 

 

Lance squeezes his hand in reply. Together, they pull the door open and poke their heads out into the hall. 

 

Nothing is there. 

 

There’s no scratch marks on the door. 

 

No evidence of damage on the floors or the walls. 

 

They cautiously walk to their bedroom. Keith leads the way. “Lance,” he breathes from the doorway. 

 

“What?” Lance asks, even though he really, _ really _ doesn’t want to know. 

 

“Nothing.” Keith says in disbelief. “....nothing.” 

 

There’s not a thing out of place. As if nothing had happened at all. 

 

Lance shakes his head. Unbelievable.  

 

*

  
  


“You should see this,” Keith tells him, days later. He motions Lance over to the couch. 

 

They’ve been working tirelessly on the Alto Hills episode. It’s good, and by good Lance means creepy as fuck. Halloween is still a couple days away, but Lance is officially ready to be done with spook season. 

 

Lance sits cross-legged and hugs a pillow on his lap. He watches warily as Keith pushes over his laptop and hands him the headphones. “Dude, unless this is a puppy video, I don’t know if I’m really in the mood.” 

 

Keith pauses, headphones in hand. “Oh.” He looks at the screen. “It’s….not..?”

 

The upstairs neighbor’s door opens and Lance jumps at the noise. He’s still very much on edge. From, yanno, the almost dying via demonic entity thing. He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s see.” 

 

Scooting close to him, Keith balances the laptop on his knees. “This is from one of the stationary cameras. The one we set up to film down the length of Main Street.” He clicks around, enlarging the image so that it takes up the whole screen. “It’s only a couple of frames long,” Keith tells him. “I missed it completely the first time around.”  

 

The figure. Lance squints, pulling the computer closer to him. It’s a little blurred around the edges. But yeah, that’s it. He swallows, mouth dry. He looks heavenward, tracing the whorls on their ceiling before squeezing his eyes shut. So they  _ do  _ have evidence it happened. And _ wasn’t  _ all in their heads. Oh fuck. 

 

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Keith starts. “It’s clearly solid---just here, look, you can see it cross through the fog. But---see--In relation to the building here. It’s too tall to be a person. And the arms,” he indicates the being’s long limbs with his pointer finger, “definitely paranormal. It’s amazing. But, to be honest, I have no idea---I mean. There’s nothing---at least nothing that I’ve read---in the history of this area that could beget an entity like this.” 

 

Shit. Lance is starting to get scared again. He laughs, nervous, “Keith, sometimes I don’t know how you do this.”

 

“Huh? Do what?” 

 

“You know,” Lance waves his hand. “All this paranormal stuff. You never get scared.” 

 

Keith makes a noncommittal noise. 

 

Okay, so he was scared when that thing----but, yeah, no, not gonna think about that.  _ Most  _ of the time, Keith is not scared. 

 

Lance continues, dropping one elbow to his knee, leaning on his fist, looking over at Keith. “I mean, how’d you even get into this kind of stuff?”

 

“Oh.” Keith sort of winces. He’s hesitant. “It was probably. You know. Because of my dad.” 

 

“Oh.” Lance’s voice is quiet. 

 

“I think,” Keith twists his hands in his lap. He’s staring downwards, jaw clenched as he works out the words. “I was trying to find.” He sucks in a deep breath. “Closure?” 

 

“Keith---” Lance interjects, content to drop it. He wasn’t trying to pry. If Keith isn’t comfortable sharing things with him, then it’s none of his business. Lance would never---

 

“It happened so fast, Lance. One minute everything was normal. And then…I thought he couldn’t just be  _ gone. _ But he was.”   

 

Lance closes his mouth. He can’t even imagine---

 

Keith was eight when he and his dad were in the car accident. He tells Lance this, suddenly. Like suddenly, he  _ needs _ to tell him. Like he’s been waiting and  _ wanting _ Lance to know, but he’s only just now figured out the words. 

 

Lance listens, intent, head bowed. He listens while Keith, slowly, uncertainly,  _ courageously, _ shares the most closely guarded pieces of himself. 

 

Keith starts with bitter facts: 

 

How many months it was after the accident before Keith started talking again. 

 

Which states he lived in while in the foster system. 

 

How much money a family collects per month after adopting a kid. 

 

He continues with feelings: 

 

The numbness of starting new school after new school. Not being able to connect. 

 

The warmth of knowing, regardless of where he was, there would always be a library. The stories that lent him comfort in a way that people in his life weren’t. The gradual shift in his interests to paranormal, horror, science fiction. The miraculous. The inexplicable. That which is beyond the natural realm. The comfort that subjects like that imparted. 

 

But also, the anger constantly thrumming under his skin. The disquiet in his heart. The rage that only led to greater chasms between his peers, his caretakers, himself. Anger that was isolating and aimless and profound. A feeling that colored his life red, and left him lonely. 

 

He finishes with people. One person: 

 

Shiro.  

 

They met as part of a Big Brother program, Keith tells Lance. Shiro was the first person to make him feel worthwhile since the death of his father. They connected in a way that was meaningful, blood deep. Shiro had also lost one of his parents at an early age, but he channeled the trauma in different ways. They were complementary to one another. Keith felt whole. 

 

But, then, Shiro left too.  

 

“When Shiro was first deployed,” Keith starts, “things were---bad.” His brow furrows, that isn’t quite right. “It wasn’t his fault! I was---looking back on it, I was still. Just. Lost.” He takes a breath, not looking Lance in the face. “I dropped out of college, and like I said, I wasn’t. I didn’t. I didn’t have a lot of direction.” 

 

Keith looks up to find Lance waiting for him to continue. His eyes drop back down, the words coming a little easier. “I went---I saw a medium. I know it sounds stupid! But something just...called me there. It seemed  _ right _ . And...the medium. My dad. She  _ knew. _ But she said,” Keith presses his lips together, remembering. “She said he wasn’t with me. She couldn’t communicate with him or sense his presence or anything like that. I felt...alone. I felt like giving up.” 

 

His hands fold together, clenching at the knuckles, and Lance feels his heart clench, too, breaking for this past Keith who needed what he couldn’t find. Couldn’t have. 

 

“But I didn’t. Give up, that is. I started making these videos because I---I guess because I needed to? For me. And---and even if it is dumb, because, I know. I know, my dad---I’ll never be able to---he’ll never---but. It wasn’t pointless!” 

 

Keith draws in a deep breath, before letting it all out in a rush: “After all, I probably wouldn’t have met you if it wasn’t for all this, right?” He looks up, finally meeting Lance’s eyes. His mouth is wobbly, but a small smile is persistent. 

 

“Oh, Keith.” Lance says, unable to keep quiet any longer. He pulls Keith close to him, kissing the edges of that wobbly smile. “You know I love you, right?” 

 

Keith nods against his shoulder. “Love you too.” He reaches up and lightly touches Lance’s cheek. It’s wet. “Why are you crying?”

 

Lance shakes his head. It’s bittersweet. He’s happy knowing because he feels closer now to Keith than he ever has, but. This is so much. He’s so thankful he clicked on ‘red_lion_haunts’ that day. 

 

It’s not the same, but his life was lacking direction too. He had just finished college and was terrified of taking the next step in life. He was stalling. That changed when he met Keith. He found exactly what he needed in a pair of dark eyes glancing into a camera lens. 

 

*

 

Weeks later, 

 

The video has been posted. It was met with grand success. Of course. Lance’s handsome face is in it (kinda), so naturally everyone loves it. 

 

No seriously. For real. It was good. And now, thankfully, it’s over. Alto Hills is fully in the past and Keith and Lance are taking a much needed afternoon off. 

 

Lance sinks closer to Keith on the couch. Keith’s arm is around his shoulders and there’s a fuzzy blanket over his lap and a pair of cats sleeping at his feet. He wiggles his fingers and Keith hands him the bowl of popcorn. 

 

_ “Hey!!! I’m gliding here!!”  _ Sandra Bullock shouts at a taxicab. Keith giggles like this is the first time he’s ever heard the line. Lance huffs out a laugh against Keith’s chest, more at Keith than the movie. 

 

The television switches to a commercial break. “Hey. Um. Lance.” 

 

“Mmn?” Lance’s hand pauses on the way to his mouth, mid-popcorn bite. 

 

“I was wondering….do you want to go out with me?”

 

Popcorn abandoned, Lance straightens up, just a little, one hand on Keith’s thigh as he turns to him, deadly serious. “Keith. I don’t know if you’ve noticed. But. We’ve been dating for about,” he studies his wrist for a moment like there’s a watch on it (there isn’t), before looking back at Keith, “fifteen months now.” 

 

“I know that.” 

 

“Then why are you acting like you’re asking me to junior prom, dude?” 

 

Keith shifts, uncomfortable under his gaze. “You--uh. Remember when you said that I take you on the worst dates?” He smiles, but it’s a little crooked. “I just thought---”

 

“Aww, babe, c’mon.” Lance takes Keith’s hand that’s fidgeting with one of the studs in his ear and presses his lips to Keith’s knuckles. “That was a joke.” 

 

“I know.” Keith looks stubborn, he pulls his hand away. “But still.” He shuffles around (one of the cats gives him a dirty look for disturbing her nap) to grab his bag off the floor. He flips open his notebook, but instead of research about their latest video, the page opens up to a bunch of ideas for day trips, fancy places to eat, the name of a _ spa _ \----date ideas. They’re mapped out neatly, in Keith’s precise, careful script. “I asked Hunk about nice restaurants in town so the food should be good,” Keith reassures. 

 

“Keith…” Lance is at a loss for words. “We don’t have to...I’m happy like this.” He motions to their apartment: Keith’s boots by the door next to Lance’s high tops, their camera equipment charging all over the place, Keith’s latest stack of paperbacks piled high on the coffee table. 

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

On the other hand….Lance coughs. He sits up properly. “Question: On these so called ‘dates,’ would you, perchance, happen to be wearing a button down? Or maybe, even, possibly, a suit?”

 

Keith blinks. 

 

Lance swings a leg around, so that he’s sitting in Keith’s lap, straddling him. He raises an index finger as though he’s postulating, and places it to his lips, deep in thought. “And, would I, theoretically, be the one to help you take  _ off  _ that suit?” 

 

“Theoretically.” Keith raises one dark brow. Runs a possessive hand down Lance’s outer thigh. 

 

“Huh.” Lance uses his finger to trace that same dark brow, before he leans forward. He kisses him open mouthed, already panting as Keith’s hand runs up and down his leg. “I suppose I can fit you into my busy schedule.” 

 

Keith kisses down his neck. “Actually,” Lance decides. “Why don’t we just ‘date’ right now? Pick me up at seven?” He waggles his brows suggestively. 

 

_ Thunk _

 

Keith’s eyes fly open. “What was that?” 

 

Lance shakes his head. “I don’t know…”

 

_ Thunk thunk thunk _

 

The ouija board is long gone. All of their shoots since then have been scary….but, like, a normal amount of scary. Lance swallows, looking at Keith. 

 

“I’m going to,” Keith shifts Lance to the side, getting up off the couch. “I’m going to check it out.” 

 

“Keith. Be careful,” Lance advises. 

 

Keith makes quite the picture, creeping out of the living room in his gray joggers and woolly socks, unarmed but clearly prepared for a ghost to come at him with everything it’s got. He pauses in the hall, hisses overly loud, “Lance! There’s something moving on the patio!” He peers close to the window. 

 

Whatever is on the patio jumps up. Keith cries out in alarm, stumbling to one side. The coat closet door swings open and someone rushes out with a loud “Boo!” 

 

Keith screams and falls flat on his ass. “Shit! Fuck!” He has his hand pressed to his chest and his eyes are wide. 

 

Lance stands up from his vantage point on the couch. He presses one hand to his ear, secret service style. “Okay boys. We got him.” 

 

“Thank god,” Pidge opens up the door to the spare room. “I was going to call it off if you two actually had sex on the couch.” 

 

“Pidge!” Hunk comes in from the patio. “They wouldn’t---wait, no. It’s Lance. He probably would.” 

 

Keith is scarlet all the way from his collarbones to his hairline. “Fuck you.” He tells Lance with a venomous glare. 

 

“Later,” Lance winks at him and shoots a couple of finger guns his way. 

 

Pidge facepalms. And groans. 

 

“And you!” Keith directs the evil-eye towards the masked figure from the closet. “Shiro. How could you?!” 

 

Shiro takes off the mask with a shrug. “What can I say? Hunk promised to feed me afterwards.” 

 

“You’re so  _ easy, _ Takashi,” Keith snarls. 

 

“I am.” Shiro agrees. 

 

“Friendssssgivinnggggggg!!!” Hunk bellows, making his way to the kitchen. Pidge cheers. 

 

“What the hell is going on?” Keith asks him, as Lance gives him a hand off the floor. 

 

“Friendsgiving?” Lance leans forward, brushing non-existent dirt off Keith’s ass. “It’s like, when all of your friends come over and you eat Thanksgiving food? But don’t worry, Hunk cooked so the turkey won’t be dry and the stuffing won’t be gross and the macaroni and cheese won’t be bland, and there’s probably way,  _ waaay  _ more food than we actually need.” 

 

Keith stares at him. Shiro’s dorky laugh echos out of the kitchen. 

 

“Oh yeah. And I made my Abuela’s flan. I think you’ll really like it.” Lance smiles, but it falters. “Too much?” 

 

Keith shakes his head, pulling Lance in close. He shakes his head again, his soft hair tickling against Lance’s neck. He mutters something which Lance doesn’t quite catch. 

 

“Hm?” Lance asks.

 

Keith squeezes him tight. Lance gets it. He presses a kiss to his forehead. He cups Keith’s face in his hands, thumbs stroking along his jawline, gently tipping it upwards ‘til they’re nose-to-nose. Lance smirks. “So. I need to say it.” 

 

“Say what?” Keith asks him. His cheeks are a little smooshed by Lance’s palms. It doesn’t stop him from looking grumpy, brows pulled down into a frown.

 

“Gotcha.” 

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! I never in my life had a fic gain popularity like ‘it’s you that’s haunting me’ and I have to tell you, it’s meant a lot to me. Truly and honestly, thank you to everyone who read the original fic. I certainly wouldn’t be out here writing 25k followup stories if it weren’t for so many wonderful comments and kudos and bookmarks and I just really, really thank you all. <3 <3 I hope if you liked the original, this one didnt disappoint. 
> 
> Leave a comment on this story if you feel so inclined. I would love that! And find me on twitter @jacqulinetan if you need to holler about anything in particular. I’m always there and I rt a lot of vld lol 
> 
> And finally, if you feel a little scared, first of all, you’re welcome, and second of all, eat something sweet. That’s what Keith would want. :D
> 
> EDIT: THERE'S FANART YOU GUYS!!!!!!!!!! [keith and lance seeing the entity on twitter](https://twitter.com/pk4n_/status/1077645961399136258) and [on tumblr](https://pk4n.tumblr.com/post/181407382474/xmas-present-for-jacqulinetan-on-twitter-if-you) thank you @pk4n!!!!!!


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